Imperium:

by Robert Harris

  Hortensius was also active. He kept the extortion court tied up with his tedious prosecution, using his mouthpiece Dasianus. Really, there was no end to his tricks. For example, he went out of his way to be friendly to Cicero, greeting him whenever they were standing around in the senaculum, waiting for a senate quorum, and ostentatiously steering him away for a private word about the general political situation. At first, Cicero was flattered, but then he discovered that Hortensius and his supporters were putting it about that he had agreed to take an enormous bribe deliberately to bungle the prosecution, hence the public embraces. Our witnesses, cooped up in their apartment blocks around the city, heard the rumours and started fluttering in panic, like chickens in a henhouse when a fox is about, and Cicero had to visit each in turn and reassure him. The next time Hortensius approached him with his hand outstretched, he showed him his back. Hortensius smiled, shrugged and turned away – what did he care? Everything was going his way.

  I should perhaps say a little more about this remarkable man – ‘the King of the Law Courts’, as his claque of supporters called him – whose rivalry with Cicero lit up the Roman bar for a generation. The foundation of his success was his memory. In more than twenty years of advocacy, Hortensius had never been known to use a note. It was no trouble to him to memorise a four-hour speech, and deliver it perfectly, either in the senate or in the forum. And this phenomenal memory was not a dull thing, born of night-time study; it shone quick in the daylight. He had an alarming capacity to remember everything his opponents had said, whether in statement or cross-examination, and could hurl it back in their faces whenever he chose. He was like some doubly armoured gladiator in the arena of the law, lunging with sword and trident, protected by net and shield. He was forty-four years old that summer, and lived with his wife and teenaged son and daughter in an exquisitely decorated house on the Palatine Hill, next door to his brother-in-law, Catulus. Exquisite – that is the mot juste for Hortensius: exquisite in manners, exquisite in dress, in hairstyle, in scent, exquisite in his taste for all fine things. He never said a rude word to anyone. But his besetting sin was greed, which was already swelling to outrageous proportions – a palace on the Bay of Naples, a private zoo, a cellar containing ten thousand casks of the finest Chianti, a picture by Cydias bought for one hundred and fifty thousand, eels dressed in jewellery, trees watered with wine, the first man to serve peacock at dinner: the whole world knows the stories. It was this extravagance which had led him to form his alliance with Verres, who showered him with stolen gifts – the most notorious of which was a priceless sphinx, carved out of a single piece of ivory – and who paid for his campaign for the consulship.

  Those consular elections were fixed to be held on the twenty-seventh day of July. On the twenty-third, the jury in the extortion court voted to acquit the former governor of Achaia of all the charges against him. Cicero, who had hurried down from working on his opening speech at home to await the result, listened impassively as Glabrio announced that he would begin hearing the case against Verres on the fifth day of August – ‘when I trust your addresses to the court will be slightly shorter,’ he said to Hortensius, who replied with a smirk. All that remained was to select a jury. This was accomplished the following day. Thirty-two senators, drawn by lot, was the number laid down by the law. Each side was entitled to make six objections, but despite using up all his challenges, Cicero still faced a dauntingly hostile jury, including – yet again – Catulus and his protégé Catilina, as well as that other grand old man of the senate, Servilius Vatia Isauricus; even Marcus Metellus slipped on to the panel. Apart from these aristocratic hard-liners, we had also to write off cynics such as Aemilius Alba, Marcus Lucretius and Antonius Hybrida, for they would invariably sell themselves to the highest bidder, and Verres was lavish with his funds. I do not think I ever knew the true meaning of that old expression about someone looking like the cat that got the cream until I saw Hortensius’s face on the day that jury was sworn in. He had it all. The consulship was in the bag, and with it, he was now confident, the acquittal of Verres.

  The days which followed were the most nerve-racking Cicero had endured in public life. On the morning of the consular election he was so dispirited he could hardly bring himself to go out to the Field of Mars to vote, but of course he had to be seen to be an active citizen. The result was never in doubt, from the moment the trumpets sounded and the red flag was hoisted over the Janiculum Hill. Hortensius and Quintus Metellus were backed by Verres and his gold, by the aristocrats, and by the supporters of Pompey and Crassus. Nevertheless, there was always a race-day atmosphere on these occasions, with the candidates and their supporters streaming out of the city in the early-morning sunshine towards the voting pens, and the enterprising shopkeepers piling their stalls with wine and sausages, dice and parasols, and all else necessary to enjoy a good election. Pompey, as senior consul, in accordance with the ancient custom, was already standing at the entrance to the returning officer’s tent, with an augur beside him. The moment all the candidates for consul and praetor, perhaps twenty senators, had lined up in their whitened togas, he mounted the platform and read out the traditional prayer. Soon afterwards the voting started and there was nothing for the thousands of electors to do except mill around and gossip until it was their turn to enter the enclosures.

  This was the old republic in action, the men all voting in their allotted centuries, just as they had in ancient times, when as soldiers they elected their commander. Now that the ritual has become meaningless, it is hard to convey how moving a spectacle it was, even for a slave such as I, who did not have the franchise. It embodied something marvellous – some impulse of the human spirit that had sparked into life half a millennium before among that indomitable race who dwelled amid the hard rocks and soft marshland of the Seven Hills: some impulse towards the light of dignity and freedom, and away from the darkness of brute subservience. This is what we have lost. Not that it was a pure, Aristotelian democracy, by any means. Precedence among the centuries – of which there were one hundred and ninety-three – was determined by wealth, and the richest classes always voted earliest and declared first: a significant advantage. These centuries also benefited by having fewer members, whereas the centuries of the poor, like the slums of Subura, were vast and teeming; as a consequence, a rich man’s vote counted for more. Still, it was freedom, as it had been practised for hundreds of years, and no man on the Field of Mars that day would have dreamed that he might live to see it taken away.

  Cicero’s century, one of the twelve consisting entirely of members of the equestrian order, was called around mid-morning, just as it was starting to get hot. He strolled with his fellows into the roped-off enclosure and proceeded to work the throng in his usual way – a word here, a touch of the elbow there. Then they formed themselves into a line and filed by the table at which sat the clerks, who checked their names and handed them their voting counters. If there was to be any intimidation, this was generally the place where it occurred, for the partisans of each candidate could get up close to the voters and whisper their threats or promises. But on this day all was quiet, and I watched Cicero step across the narrow wooden bridge and disappear behind the boards to cast his ballot. Emerging on the other side, he passed along the line of candidates and their friends, who were standing beneath an awning, paused briefly to talk to Palicanus – the roughly spoken former tribune was standing for a praetorship – and then exited without giving Hortensius or Metellus a second glance.

  Like all those before it, Cicero’s century backed the official slate – Hortensius and Quintus Metellus for consul; Marcus Metellus and Palicanus for praetor – and now it was merely a question of going on until an absolute majority was reached. The poorer men must have known they could not affect the outcome, but such was the dignity conveyed by the franchise, they stood all afternoon in the heat, awaiting their turn to collect their ballots and shuffle over the bridge. Cicero and I went up and down the lines as he canvassed support
for the aedileship, and it was marvellous how many he knew personally – not just the voters’ names, but their wives’ names and the number of their children, and the nature of their employment: all done without any prompting from me. At the eleventh hour, when the sun was just starting to dip towards the Janiculum, a halt was called at last and Pompey proclaimed the winners. Hortensius had topped the poll for consul, with Quintus Metellus second; Marcus Metellus had won most votes for praetor. Their jubilant supporters crowded round them, and now for the first time we saw the redheaded figure of Gaius Verres slip into the front rank – ‘The puppet-master comes to take his bow,’ observed Cicero – and one would have thought that he had won the consulship by the way the aristocrats shook his hand and pounded him on the back. One of them, a former consul, Scribonius Curio, embraced Verres and said, loudly enough for all to hear, ‘I hereby inform you that today’s election means your acquittal!’

  There are few forces in politics harder to resist than a feeling that something is inevitable, for humans move as a flock, and will always rush like sheep towards the safety of a winner. On every side now, one heard the same opinion: Cicero was done for, Cicero was finished, the aristocrats were back in charge, no jury would ever convict Gaius Verres. Aemilius Alba, who fancied himself a wit, told everyone he met that he was in despair: the bottom had dropped out of the market for Verres’s jurors, and he could not sell himself for more than three thousand. Attention now switched to the forthcoming elections for aedile, and it was not long before Cicero detected Verres’s hand at work behind the scenes here, as well. A professional election agent, Ranunculus, who was well disposed towards Cicero and was afterwards employed by him, came to warn the senator that Verres had called a night-time meeting at his own house of all the leading bribery merchants, and had offered five thousand to every man who could persuade his tribe not to vote for Cicero. I could see that both Cicero and his brother were worried. Worse was to follow. A few days later, on the eve of the actual election, the senate met with Crassus in the chair, to witness the praetors-elect draw lots to determine which courts they would preside over when they took office in January. I was not present, but Cicero was in the chamber, and he returned home afterwards looking white and limp. The unbelievable had happened: Marcus Metellus, already a juror in the Verres case, had drawn the extortion court!

  Even in his darkest imaginings, Cicero had never contemplated such an outcome. He was so shocked he had almost lost his voice. ‘You should have heard the uproar in the house,’ he whispered to Quintus. ‘Crassus must have rigged the draw. Everyone believes he did it, but nobody knows how he did it. That man will not rest until I am broken, bankrupt and in exile.’ He shuffled into his study and collapsed into his chair. It was a stiflingly hot day, the third of August, and there was hardly room to move among all the accumulated material from the Verres case: the piles of tax records and affidavits and witness statements, roasting and dusty in the heat. (And these were only a fraction of the total: most were locked in boxes in the cellar.) His draft speech – his immense opening speech, which kept on growing and growing, like some proliferating madness – was stacked in tottering piles across his desk. I had long since given up trying to keep track of it. Only he knew how it might come together. It was all in his head, the sides of which he now began massaging with the tips of his fingers. He asked in a croaking voice for a cup of water. I turned away to fetch it, heard a sigh and then a thump, and when I looked round he had slumped forwards, knocking his skull against the edge of his desk. Quintus and I rushed to either side of him and pulled him up. His cheeks were dead grey, with a livid streak of bright red blood trickling from his nose; his mouth hung slackly open.

  Quintus was in a panic. ‘Fetch Terentia!’ he shouted at me. ‘Quickly!’

  I ran upstairs to her room and told her the master was ill. She came down at once and was magnificent in the way she took command. Cicero by now was feebly conscious, his head between his knees. She knelt beside him, called for water, pulled a fan from her sleeve, and starting waving it vigorously to cool his cheeks. Quintus in the meantime, still wringing his hands, had dispatched the two junior secretaries to fetch whatever doctors were in the neighbourhood, and each soon returned with a Greek medic in tow. The wretched quacks immediately began arguing between themselves about whether it was best to purge or bleed. Terentia sent both packing. She also refused to allow Cicero to be carried up to bed, warning Quintus that word of this would quickly get around, and the widespread belief that her husband was finished would then become an accomplished fact. She made him rise unsteadily to his feet and, holding his arm, took him out into the atrium, where the air was fresher. Quintus and I followed. ‘You are not finished!’ I could hear her saying sternly to him. ‘You have your case – now make it!’ Cicero mumbled something in reply.

  Quintus burst out: ‘That is all very well, Terentia, but you do not understand what has just happened.’ And he told her about Metellus’s appointment as the new president of the extortion court, and its implications. There was no chance of a guilty verdict being returned once he was in the judge’s chair, which meant their only hope was to have the hearing concluded by December. But that was impossible, given Hortensius’s ability to spin it out. There was simply too much evidence for the time available: only ten days in court before Pompey’s games, and Cicero’s opening statement alone would take up most of it. No sooner would he have finished outlining his case than the court would be in recess for the best part of a month, and by the time they came back the jury would have forgotten his brilliant points. ‘Not that it matters,’ Quintus concluded gloomily, ‘as most of them are in the pay of Verres already.’

  ‘It’s true, Terentia,’ said Cicero. He looked around him distractedly, as if he had only just woken up and realised where he was. ‘I must pull out of the election for aedile,’ he muttered. ‘It would be humiliating enough to lose, but even more humiliating to win and not be able to discharge the duties of the office.’

  ‘Pathetic,’ replied Terentia, and she angrily pulled her arm free of his. ‘You don’t deserve to be elected, if this is how you surrender at the first setback, without putting up a fight!’

  ‘My dear,’ said Cicero beseechingly, pressing his hand to his forehead, ‘if you will tell me how I am supposed to defeat time itself, then I will fight it bravely. But what am I to do if I only have ten days to set out my prosecution before the court goes into recess for weeks on end?’

  Terentia leaned in close to him, so that her face was only inches from his. ‘Make your speech shorter!’ she hissed.

  AFTER HIS WIFE had retired to her corner of the house, Cicero, still not fully recovered from his fit of nerves, retreated to his study and sat there for a long time, staring at the wall. We left him alone. Sthenius came by just before sunset to report that Quintus Metellus had summoned all the Sicilian witnesses to his house, and that a few of the more timid souls had foolishly obeyed. From one of these, Sthenius had obtained a full report of how Metellus had tried to intimidate them into retracting their evidence. ‘I am consul-elect,’ he had thundered at them. ‘One of my brothers is governing Sicily, the other is going to preside over the extortion court. Many steps have been taken to ensure that no harm can befall Verres. We shall not forget those who go against us.’ I took down the exact quotation and tentatively went in to see Cicero. He had not moved in several hours. I read out Metellus’s words, but he gave no sign of having heard.

  By this stage I was becoming seriously concerned, and would have fetched his brother or wife again, if his mind had not suddenly re-emerged from wherever it had been wandering. Staring straight ahead, he said in a grim tone: ‘Go and make an appointment for me to see Pompey this evening.’ When I hesitated, wondering if this was another symptom of his malady, he glared at me. ‘Go!’

  It was only a short distance to Pompey’s house, which was in the same district of the Esquiline Hill as Cicero’s. The sun had just gone down but it was still light, and swelteringly h
ot, with a torpid breeze wafting gently from the east – the worst possible combination at the height of summer, because it carried into the neighbourhood the stench of the putrefying corpses in the great common graves beyond the city wall. I believe the problem is not so acute these days, but sixty years ago the Esquiline Gate was the place where everything dead and not worth a proper funeral was taken to be dumped – the bodies of dogs and cats, horses, donkeys, slaves, paupers and still-born babies, all mixed up and rotting together, along with the household refuse. The stink always drew great flocks of crying gulls, and I remember that on this particular evening it was especially acute: a rancid and pervasive smell, which one tasted on the tongue as much as one absorbed it through the nostrils.

  Pompey’s house was much grander than Cicero’s, with a couple of lictors posted outside and a crowd of sightseers gathered opposite. There were also half a dozen canopied litters set down in the lee of the wall, their bearers squatting nearby playing bones – evidence that a big dinner party was in progress. I gave my message to the gatekeeper, who vanished inside, and returned a little later with the praetor-elect, Palicanus, who was dabbing at his greasy chin with a napkin. He recognised me, asked what it was all about, and I repeated my message. ‘Right you are,’ said Palicanus, in his blunt way. ‘You can tell him from me that the consul will see him immediately.’

  Cicero must have known Pompey would agree to meet, for when I returned he had already changed into a fresh set of clothes and was ready to go out. He was still very pale. He exchanged a last look with Quintus, and then we set off. There was no conversation between us as we walked, because Cicero, who hated any reminder of death, kept his sleeve pressed to his mouth and nose to ward off the smell from the Esquiline Field. ‘Wait here,’ he said, when we reached Pompey’s house, and that was the last I saw of him for several hours. The daylight faded, the massy purple twilight ripened into darkness and the stars began to appear in clusters above the city. Occasionally, when the door was opened, the muffled sounds of voices and laughter reached the street, and I could smell meat and fish cooking, although on that foul night they all reeked of death to me, and I wondered how Cicero could possibly find the stomach for it, for by now it was clear that Pompey had asked him to join his dinner party.