Consisting of more than six hundred, most members of the Senate came from Rome’s greatest families. Recently, Emperor Claudius had admitted Gallic and Spanish noblemen to that esteemed group. As a lifetime position, membership was passed from one generation to the next. The so-called noble fathers ranged from the minimum age of entry, thirty, to doddering old fools, in their seventies and eighties, too senile to understand what was happening around them.
Senators, who currently or in the past had held the elected or appointed high offices of consul, ceremonial head of state, praetor, chief civil magistrate, and legate−army general, sat on the lower two levels of benches. The rest who held power to lesser varying degrees took up the remaining upper levels.
In the chilly, early morning darkness, Sabinus and his entourage arrived at the senate building, the Curia. Winter came early, and soon the city would be white with its first snow. Flurries swirled around us, melting with the touch of earth. We pushed our way through the large crowd, who shivered in their cloaks and mantles, as they gathered around the outside of the building. There had been no official announcement of the early December trial date, but that had not prevented rumors from spreading like a tenement fire throughout the city.
A trial of such magnitude with the emperor presiding would turn out the entire Senate. No bailiffs or consul’s tipstaffs had been necessary to round up the needed quorum of fifty for the court case.
Located at the north end of the Forum, the Curia sat next to the smaller less important Forum of Julius Caesar. The tall, imposing building had been rebuilt after a fire, four years before the assassination of Julius Caesar, more than one hundred years earlier.
Sabinus, including Crispus and I, and his chief steward, Alexias, climbed the high marble porch in front of the Senate. Alexias carried the urn that Crispus and I had taken from the Gallus family tomb, still holding the incriminating documents, concealed in a heavy cloth inside his cloak.
Bracing ourselves against the piercing wind, we continued trudging up the steps, togas and tunics whipping sharply about our bodies. The biting cold taunted the battle scar on my cheek until I could feel its welt standing boldly in protest. We passed between delicately chiseled, perforated pillars, through tall, bronze doors into the great hearing room. A galaxy of statues encircled and bordered the dimly lit interior. Inside, tightly packed tiers of comfortable and beautifully carved benches climbed up and aligned in a curving semicircle where the senators sat in a sea of white togas and woolen cloaks, directly in front of the dais.
The Praetorian Guard stood shield to shield along the Sacred Way, through the Forum and up to the Curia, surrounding the outside and inside of its chambers, in full battle dress armed with javelins at the ready. Their menacing presence sent a message that any riot would be crushed.
At the entrance the consul’s lictors, minor magistrates checked for our names on the list of those allowed access. Then we were searched by the Praetorians for weapons. All others, including the mob, stayed outside. Wind permitting, the people could listen to the trial proceedings. Since the Curia’s numerous doors had been flung open, the echoing sounds from within carried a long distance. Those of us inside suffered almost as much from the cold as those outside.
Several more braziers had been placed about the cold chambers, and along with many lanterns gave the dark and shadowy hall a gray-yellow smoking pattern of illumination.
In spite of the piercing cold, thousands more swelled the Forum, packed to overflowing. Late arrivals, who entered the Curia, murmured of fighting their way through massive crowds. However, the shield-and javelin-bearing Praetorians kept the rabble at bay. Two-thousand combat-ready City Guardsmen and Watchmen stood in reserve close by, should a riot erupt. Since many of the populace were expected to be at the Forum, a cohort of one thousand Bucketmen patrolled the market places and residential areas of the city. Events like a major trial or holiday afforded thieves a great opportunity to commit burglary while their occupants were away.
All the senators had arrived, including many known to be ill. By deference to rank and seniority, the first row went to ex-consuls and praetors. They huddled together in an apparent attempt to warm themselves from the icy breeze that penetrated the building.
Last to enter was a haggard-faced Gallus. The Praetorians escorted him and his family to benches opposite Sabinus. Attended by several friends and distinguished senators, he wore a gray mourning toga symbolizing his distress. His weeping wife’s deeply wrinkled face matched her mourning clothes. Other relatives, similarly attired, followed her wailing lead. Gallus glared at Sabinus with cruel little eyes, which seemed to say that he would have his revenge.
His advocate, the lawyer Ulpius, wore a shiny, solid-white toga, a sign of the wealth he had accumulated in defending the rich. On his plump fingers large, jeweled, gold rings, befitting a successful lawyer, encased his puffy fingers.
As the old senator entered the chamber, a number of ex-praetors and consuls shifted to the other side of the hall in a show of contempt. That didn’t go unnoticed by Gallus, as he whispered something in his lawyer’s ear.
On the center of the dais stood an impressive gilded statue of Victory stretching her wings. The beautiful face looked blankly down upon us from the top of a globe. Her flowing and revealing robes caressed her breasts as a delicate, outstretched hand held forth a laurel crown. A small, ornamented altar containing smoking coals stood near the image.
The murmuring within the walls came to a halt. Everyone rose as the court chamberlain announced the arrival of the emperor and magistrates.
Two cornu trumpet players chimed a ceremonial entrance hymn while Claudius strode in behind an army of minor magistrates. The haughty lictors, dressed in flowing, white togas, swaggered forth carrying the Fasces, double-bitted axes encased in a mat of five hardwood sticks, the symbol of justice and religion. The presiding consul, Titus Statilius Taurus, who wore the white and purple toga praetexa of his office, followed behind. The praetor and several other judges trailed the consul and proceeded to the backless cushioned chairs where they turned and faced the Senate.
A cheer rang out through the Senate, “Ave Caesar! Hail Caesar!”
The emperor stopped at a brazier. From a pouch handed to him by the augur-priest, he took a pinch of incense and sprinkled it on the burner as custom dictated. The augur signaled two acolytes to bring forth a small wooden cage holding two of the sacred chickens. Opening the cage, an acolyte fed them grain, which they ravenously ate. As grains dropped from the side of their beaks, the augur studied the birds. He turned to the dais. “I see no evil sight, nor do I hear any evil sound.”
A sigh of relief raced through the Senate as servants quickly swept up spilled grain and scooped up the squawking fowl. Stuffed into the cage, they were carted away. The augur ordered the acolytes to place the allotted hour glasses on the tables of the prosecution and defense. As prescribed by law, the accusers were allowed six and defendant nine. However, as much as the emperor liked to conduct court, he was known for his impatience. No one expected Gallus’s trial to last more than one day.
The augur took his place beside the magistrates.
Claudius shook out his voluminous, finely woven toga and announced the ritual words, “Affairs divine have been attended to, affairs human now can begin.” He nodded to Sabinus. “Let the accusers of Senator Anicius Pedius Gallus the Elder stand forth.” Claudius sat down.
I glanced toward one of the opened doors. Word had already spread of what was happening to the masses outside. The level of an already noisy mob increased.
Alexias, Crispus, and I sat behind Sabinus. He stood and bowed to the emperor and the other magistrates. Sabinus turned and addressed the Senate who appeared to be waiting in silent anticipation. Sabinus took two deliberate steps past the prosecutor’s bench, upon which lay his documents, and stopped. He turned and pointed his right hand at Gallus, exclaiming in a deep but resonant voice, “You stand accused,” he paused, “before this illustrious t
ribunal and peers of the Senate.” He gestured to the crowded benches and bellowed, “High crimes against these great and noble fathers whom you would have so willfully murdered. Infamous crimes of high treason, conspiracy to murder our beloved Emperor Claudius, and twenty of his greatest and most honored senators—your peers. And conspiracy to commit murder against Princess Eleyne, daughter of our ally, the British King Verica—an honored guest of the emperor—and murder of her lady-in-waiting the metic woman, Karmune. And conspiracy to commit burglary and other heinous felonies against the people and the gods of the state.
“If that were not enough, he sent twenty assassins to murder my wife and myself. Fortunately, they were stopped by my brave retainers,” He nodded to Crispus and I, “and loyal members of the Praetorian Guard who were escorting me back to my home on orders by the emperor.”
Gasps and shouts of “No,” erupted among members of the Senate.
“Yes, it is true. The surviving assassin confessed before he was put to death.”
Sabinus turned his back and walked to the prosecutor’s table and scooped up a small bundle of papers in his left hand. Sabinus proceeded to where the senators sat and scanned their attentive faces, ignoring Gallus’s trailing glare. He lifted the documents and tapped them neatly with his right hand. “We have before us the confessions of fourteen senators—Gallus’s fellow conspirators.” He read their names slowly, and those of the thieves, and the Egyptian, and the charges.
“If that evidence is not enough,” Sabinus continued, “I have the written documents found in Gallus’s family tomb.” He turned to Alexias and nodded.
Alexias stepped to the table and pulled from beneath his cloak the plain urn that Crispus and I had discovered. Sabinus removed the lid and took out the parchments containing the damning information as Alexias returned to his seat.
A shocked murmur and a rippling gasp erupted from the senators, Gallus’s sympathizers. Some cried, “Sacrilege! Sacrilege!”
Sabinus cut the cronies off. “SACRILEGE? There is no SACRILEGE concerning conspiracies to MURDER the emperor!” He turned his head slowly meeting the eyes of those who’d cried out, silencing them as if daring each to contradict him.
Continuing, he waved the documents towards Gallus. “These are in his handwriting . . . stamped with his seal, as discovered by Centurion Reburrus and Sergeant Crispus, loyal soldiers of the army.”
I felt heat rushing to my face as I glanced about wondering what these men thought of Crispus and I. Didn’t we do the right thing?
My patron glared at Gallus. “It is because of your lengthy and distinguished ancestry, and your past services to Rome, that you have been offered the privilege of an open and public trial by your peers. Under the laws governing treason and conspiracy to murder the emperor, you could have suffered an ignominious death.”
Gallus gnashed his teeth and scowled. By custom, neither he nor his advocate were allowed to make objections during the prosecution’s presentation.
Sabinus took a deep breath. “The charges against you are very grave, and the evidence that I submit to this esteemed body,” he bowed slightly to the senators, “and the esteemed tribunal,” bowing a little deeper to Claudius and the magistrates, “will show beyond a reasonable doubt that you are guilty . . . guilty of crimes that could have shaken the Roman Empire to its very foundations, and laid waste the gains made by our emperor. Not even mighty Jupiter and all the gods in heaven could have stopped the consequences had you succeeded.”
Returning to his table, the sounds of murmuring trailed in Sabinus’s wake, as he gently dropped the parchments. He turned to Gallus. “It is by the emperor’s divine justice that you are afforded this open and impartial public trial . . . which by reading of these documents you do not deserve. We know that this plot was not planned in haste, but you . . . !” He shot an accusing finger towards the old man, “Yes, you, began conspiring three years ago—as soon as our August Caesar was proclaimed emperor by the Praetorian Guard and confirmed by the Senate! You wasted no time in showing contempt for the government of Rome and its duly acclaimed ruler—confirmed by the Senate.”
Grandly sweeping his hand palm up, Sabinus gestured to the white-and purple-trimmed, toga-clad audience. I thought to myself, as he said those words, how the Senate was intimidated by the Praetorians into proclaiming Claudius emperor. Yet, he had to play on the Senate’s vanity, the hypocrisy of it all.
“We know that this felonious scheming reached beyond the Senate,” he said as his voice echoed through the Curia and outside into the cold morning air. “For the assassination of Caesar’s sacred person could not have taken place without help from inside the palace—by those charged with his safety. At this moment, as I am addressing this illustrious body, six junior officers, centurions and cohort commanders of the Praetorian Guard, are being arrested by Praetorian Prefect Rufrius Crispinus for their parts in this plot.”
A gasp and stirring went through the Senate. Looks of surprise crossed their faces and several of the Praetorians stationed around the Curia nervously glanced at one another.
Crispus and I looked about and to each other and shrugged. Neither of us had been privy to this information.
“The discovery of the conspiracy came none too soon, for the date of the emperor’s murder was to take place on the first day of the holiday, Saturnalia, in December. We know how everything, including security, becomes lax during those festivities.
“The plot was to be executed by the cohort commander on duty with the guard. As you know, it is customary to exchange one’s place with a servant or slave during Saturnalia—this was the idea of the commander. He would dress as a slave in a tunic and while serving dinner, slay the emperor with a hidden dagger. You, Gallus,” he shot a forefinger at him, “paid a hefty sum to commit that piece of treachery, one million sesterces, more than enough to qualify a villain for the illustrious position of senator!”
Nearly every senator raised eyebrows, exchanged glances, and shook their heads.
“Was that the commander’s price?” Sabinus questioned. “The prostitution of his position for this broad sacred purple trim on a toga?” he pointed to his garb.
My patron moved in a small circle and an arm extended at shoulder level pointed a finger at the silent senators. “I see a great number of togas in our midst, each trimmed in widths of Imperial purple, by the grace of the one raised to the purple itself, Emperor Claudius. A valued purple band granted to us in recognition of having been found worthy to the Senate of Rome, and the greatest empire in the world.”
Many eyes were drawn to the purple trim on their own garments.
“A purple band,” he continued, “as trim upon—not a black toga, nor a brown toga, but trim upon a pure, near-divine, white toga.”
He raised his voice and raged directly in front of Gallus. “And you would dare permit such a murdering beast to defile these pure-symbols we wear? DARE you permit, no, pay that imposter to come within our midst with the blood of our beloved emperor stained upon his hands and robes?”
Gallus appeared to be stunned silent, as was the Senate at large.
“This . . . ,” Sabinus wavered as if near fainting, then recovered, “ . . . sickens me,” he said in a voice clearly audible within the chambers. “To grant a title, which he rightfully did not earn in an honorable fashion? Is . . . barbaric.” He turned to the senators. “Are those the kinds of men we want to inherit Rome? To inherit our morals and institutions? Inherit the peace we enjoy because of our gracious emperor? NO! I say they should not.”
Another cry sounded through the hall from supporters of Sabinus, “No! No! Death to the traitor! Death to the traitor!”
The praetor raised his hand, and silence returned to the chamber. Sabinus used the distraction to rub his hands together for warmth. A cold wind soughed briefly through the chambers, the breath of snow heavy in its wake.
Dropping his hands to the side of his toga, Sabinus scanned the faces of his fellow senators. “The emperor’s
sacred life is worth more than all the gold in the empire, the world. What was to be the outcome had the emperor died?” He paused, turned, and pointed a finger at Gallus. “You promised to restore the Republic. The Republic is dead and it can never be restored.”
Gallus shook his head and muttered, “Preposterous.”
Sabinus ignored the remark and eyed certain senators known to still harbor republican sentiments. “The Republic was brought down by the greed, corruption, and indecisiveness of the Senate. Rome suffered from decades of civil war as its members played off one general against another. Great men, like the noble Julius Caesar, who sought to restore order and dignity to the Senate, were assassinated by a few treacherous members of this great body, thus prolonging the destruction.”
I caught myself nodding in agreement.
“It took the leadership of the divine Augustus, great uncle of our beloved emperor, to finally restore order and stability and bring back sensible government,” Sabinus said. “The Senate insisted on giving him more and more authority. And why? They knew that by themselves they could no longer govern the empire. But, through the guidance of the emperor, the Senate ably performs a great many duties that would otherwise be burdensome to the emperor. Need I remind you that he has made very important concessions to you. Among them he has returned the provinces of Achaea and Macedonia to your control. They had been under Imperial rule since the time of Augustus.”
Sabinus stopped to drink a cup of water on the prosecutor’s table. Placing the cup back on the table, he turned in Gallus’s direction and back to the senators. “But Gallus would destroy all of that with an unworkable institution. He would lead the empire back down a dark path of anarchy and destruction—may the gods forbid! And for what purpose? To serve the people? No, not hardly. He serves no one’s needs but his own. It was to his own glory and bloated vanity that he would destroy Rome. Only he would have benefitted from the emperor’s death.”
He hesitated and then shot a finger to the fidgeting audience and cried, “And yours!”
The Broken Lance Page 28