The Advocate

by Randy Singer

  The clapping, I noticed, did not start immediately. It actually seemed that the great Crispinus had fizzled somewhat. He had tried to rouse the senators to their feet but it fell flat. When he stopped, Mutilus stood to clap and was quickly followed by Otho. A few others joined them and then a few more, until the standing ovation had rippled through the entire Senate. For a senator to remain seated, I knew, would have drawn the ire of Macro.

  I allowed time for the clapping to run its course and for the senators to sit back down. Then I stood and glanced toward the Senate doorway, where Seneca was standing.

  “You’re ready,” he mouthed.

  I felt strangely calm as I took my place in front of the consuls. I noticed, of all things, a pigeon that flew overhead and perched on a rafter. It seemed that for this moment, all of nature had an interest in what I was about to say.

  Cato gave me a nod, and I began slowly, hesitatingly, as I tried to get comfortable with all the senatorial stares. “How can we be so sure about what the great Tiberius himself might say if he were sitting in your seats?” I asked. “Reading the mind of Caesar is fraught with difficulty. This body should vote based on its own convictions, not based on what you think Caesar might want you to do.”

  I could tell from the looks on their faces that the senators were not buying it. With someone as volatile as Tiberius, you had better err on the side of protecting his reputation.

  “But if you are insistent on voting the way you think Tiberius would want you to vote, then you should surely acquit my client.”

  The remark brought a few snickers from the senators. One or two smiled snidely at the insanity of such a comment. I pointed to one of them. “You doubt the truth of that?” I asked. But I didn’t give the man a chance to respond.

  “There is one thing that all the witnesses in this case have agreed on. My client never took any action against Caesar; he merely spoke disparaging words. So the question becomes: Is that enough? Can a conviction for maiestas be sustained on mere words?”

  I allowed that thought to hang in the air for a moment. I was nervous, and it was hard not to talk continually and fill the silence. But my training in rhetoric had taken over. The senators no longer intimidated me. In my mind they had become my fellow pupils in the Molon School.

  “Have you so quickly forgotten the case of Gaius Lutorius Priscus?” I knew that nobody had forgotten about Priscus. The man was a wildly popular poet and satirist who wrote a disparaging poem about Tiberius’s son Drusus just before his death. Priscus read the poem to several high-ranking women at a raucous banquet. The Senate charged Priscus with maiestas and convicted him based on conflicting testimony. One senator, Marcus Lepidus, argued vehemently that Priscus’s punishment should be commuted. Instead, the Senate ordered that Priscus be executed immediately.

  When Tiberius heard about this, he complained of the senators’ hasty punishment and praised Lepidus. He also issued an edict—from that point forward, the Senate had to wait nine days after conviction before a prisoner could be executed.

  “You, Marcus Lepidus,” I said, pointing to the senator, “gave an impassioned defense of Priscus. And that man’s satire makes Senator Apronius’s comments look mild by comparison.” Lepidus stared stoically at me, making it impossible to read his thoughts. “You had the courage to stand against the entire Senate once. And when Tiberius heard about it, he praised you. Do you remember what he said?”

  Lepidus gave me a slight nod, and I knew I had him as I continued. “He complained that the Senate had been too hasty to convict Priscus for mere words and that you alone had exercised commendable restraint.”

  I turned away from Lepidus and lifted my voice so that every senator could easily hear. “Mere words,” I said. “That’s what Tiberius called such stinging satire. Mere words.

  “Is Tiberius so weak that the honor of his office and the nobility of his person cannot withstand an attack of mere words? Are his accomplishments so meager and his policies so misguided that they cannot hold up to the slightest amount of criticism? Does he need you to police every word spoken because his reputation cannot stand on its own two feet?”

  I noticed that the chamber had grown quiet. Perhaps the senators’ lack of courage could be used to my advantage. I tried to tighten the rope another twist.

  “This chamber’s authority to conduct treason trials was granted to you by Caesar himself. But that authority came with a very crucial limitation.

  “Mere words cannot be the basis of a conviction for maiestas. To say otherwise is to say that the great Tiberius can be injured by nothing more than what a man says. That his office and honor are so fragile that one snide comment from a misguided senator will cause the emperor to come crumbling down. A vote of guilty says that you believe Tiberius is weak. But a vote of not guilty says that mere words, harmless puffs of air from a human mouth, cannot destroy the impenetrable house of Caesar.

  “Mere words,” I said. “Which of you has never uttered a single word critical of Caesar?”

  I left the question dangling and returned confidently to my seat. Nobody inside the chamber clapped. Instead, the senators were damning me with their eyes. Perhaps I had just made an easy decision a more difficult one.

  But outside, the freedmen were cheering.

  CHAPTER 38

  It didn’t take long for the Senate to dash my hopes. In an hour of debate, only Marcus Lepidus argued in favor of acquittal. When he sat down, a string of senators rose to challenge what Lepidus had said. It was a game of one-upmanship, each senator sounding more indignant than the last. My heart sank as I listened to the men who were supposed to be the leaders of Rome. Apronius handled it stoically, resigned to his fate. He held his head high and turned in his seat, impassively watching each senator as he spoke.

  Cato finally ended debate and called for a vote. The senators in favor of guilt were instructed to move to the right side of the great Senate chamber and those in favor of acquittal to move to the left. The senators rose en masse and shuffled to the guilty side of the chamber. Only Lepidus and Apronius crossed over to the other side, surrounded by empty seats.

  “The accused will come forward,” Cato said.

  Apronius walked to the front and stared straight at Cato, chin held high. I stood next to him.

  “The full Senate, having heard the evidence against you, finds you guilty of the charge of crimen maiestatis and sentences you to death by strangulation nine days hence. All of your possessions and titles shall be equitably distributed among those who brought and prosecuted the charges.”

  Shouts of protest erupted outside the chamber. The guards moved quickly. They put chains on Apronius’s ankles and wrists and escorted him toward the door. He stopped for a moment and stared at his former friends, Papius Mutilus and Junius Otho. It was a chilling sight. His eyes promised them that the beast they had unleashed would one day turn back and devour them. A guard jerked the chain and moved Apronius forward. Other guards created a human alleyway to escort Apronius through the crowd and across the Forum. He would spend the next nine days in the Tullianum.

  He turned and looked at me before he left.

  If I read his lips correctly, he said, “Thank you,” and then he was gone.

  The scene took me back to the day that the Nazarene had disappeared from the Stone Pavement Courtyard. This time I felt the same despondency the rabbi’s followers must have felt then—an innocent man condemned for political reasons. A fresh stab of guilt ripped the rewoven fabric of my spirit. I had been a coward in Jerusalem. Today I had reaped a coward’s reward.

  A few of the senators whom Apronius and I had thought would vote in favor of acquittal looked ashen-faced. I could tell they were wondering who would be next. There was none of the usual huddling and good-natured chatter that typically filled the chamber.

  I surveyed the melancholy scene, shaking my head at what had become of Rome. The only senator in the entire chamber who was smiling was the despicable Caepio Crispinus. In his head, he
was probably counting the money.

  That night Marcus and I shared dinner at my flat, and I was nearly inconsolable. My entire life I had dreamed of a moment like today where I would be called on to muster all my skills of advocacy, arguing in support of a worthy cause. I had stood on the floor of the Senate and acquitted myself well. Accolades from friends and supporters of Apronius made it clear that I had won their admiration. Yet none of that mattered.

  In nine days, a good man would be put to death. The Senate had turned the majesty of Roman jurisprudence into a mockery of petty jealousies and opportunism.

  To his credit, Marcus was a good listener. He did his best to cheer me up during the first glass of wine. The second and third glasses loosened my tongue and dissolved my inhibitions. I was angry, lashing out at the cowards in the Senate and the greed of men like Crispinus.

  Marcus suggested that we go for a walk. I made the mistake of taking the wine flask with us.

  It was dark and threatening more snow as we made our way down the narrow streets of Rome. Occasionally we were stopped by people who knew me, and they expressed their condolences about the day’s events. We twice saw members of the Praetorian Guard patrolling the streets and made a point to pass on the other side.

  By the time we wandered into the Forum, it was almost midnight, and the wine was nearly gone. Most of Rome’s respectable citizens were no longer strolling around the epicenter of the city, surrounded by temples and the Roman Treasury and the Senate building. But the creatures of the night were out in full force. Prostitutes, beggars, swindlers, and drunkards.

  Drunkards like me, I thought, though my mind had long since turned foggy.

  A part of me realized I was stumbling on both the cobblestones under my feet and the words tripping off my tongue. More than once, Marcus tried to take the flask of wine from me, but I wouldn’t let it go. Several times he grabbed my arm to keep me from slipping. When we walked by the Senate building, I grew more agitated and finished off a few final gulps from the flask. My voice must have been rising because Marcus kept telling me to keep it down.

  “Fat, fat Cato,” I said, my voice hoarse, the words rolling slowly off my tongue. “Gutless, gutless Cato.”

  When Marcus steered me away from the building, I had another idea. Clumsily, I climbed the steps of the Rostra. I stood there on the platform and looked out at the blurry figures of Roman night dwellers milling around. I raised my voice to be heard.

  “Romans, citizens, listen to me!” I shouted.

  Marcus rolled his eyes. “Ignore him!” he said loudly.

  “Ignore me at your own peril!” I shot back. I took a sideways step and caught myself. “The evil that men do lives after them,” I hollered, “and today this Senate—” I pointed with a broad, sweeping motion in the general direction of the Senate building—“committed evil on an epic scale.”

  I liked the way that sounded. Epic scale. Brilliant. I was really good.

  Marcus grabbed my arm and pulled me sideways, but I dug in my heels. “Today was a day for great traitors, men who put Brutus to shame, men who will now claim the wealth of noble—” The name, just for a moment, escaped my memory. I looked at Marcus. “What’s his name again?”

  Marcus just shook his head.

  “Apronius!” I cried, my memory suddenly replenished. “Apronius is the best senator, but now he is going to be a dead one.”

  People had gathered at the foot of the Rostra. They seemed to be swimming in the night air. I could see the soldiers listening to everything I said. Good! Now that I had everyone’s attention, I could finish my defense. The things I wished I had said in the Senate chamber earlier that day.

  “And as for Tiberius, let me tell you a secret,” I said, speaking softly for emphasis. Maybe I could be one of those Asiatic speakers after all.

  “Don’t make fun of Caesar,” I warned, my voice gruff and low. I shook my head, wagged my finger, and a few people laughed. “You want to know why?”

  “Yeah, tell us why!” someone shouted.

  I held up my right hand, the pose of a master lawyer. “I’ll tell you why,” I slurred out.

  “Shut up,” Marcus said under his breath. “Just shut up.”

  But I had no intention of shutting up. I was on a roll. The wine was speaking, allowing me to say everything I had wanted to say all day.

  “Because Caesar is—”

  I saw a flash on my side and then felt pain crack across my jaw, both sharp and distant, just before the world went black. I didn’t have time to protest, time to ask Marcus why he would punch somebody he considered a friend.

  By the time I woke up, I no longer cared.

  CHAPTER 39

  The day after the trial, I woke with a blazing headache, a sore jaw, a dry mouth, and a stomach that was in full-scale revolt. My head felt swollen and full of pressure; loud noises were like a hammer to my skull.

  I rallied enough to offer sacrifices in the temples with the hope that somehow Tiberius would intervene and spare Apronius.

  In the meantime, Seneca had learned about my drunken rant and summoned me to his house. We might now be friends, but he was still the teacher and I was still the headstrong pupil. He was fuming mad and lectured me for nearly ten minutes. I had been taught better than that, he said. “Are you trying to get yourself killed? Because if you are, you’re doing an excellent job.”

  A good advocate knows when to defend himself and when to simply grovel and ask for forgiveness. After I had said I was sorry about a dozen times, Seneca’s anger finally burned itself out. He lowered his voice, and the throbbing in my head subsided a little.

  But Seneca was the least of my problems. If Seneca had found out about my drunken exploits, who else might know? I fretted that word had somehow leaked back to Macro or Cato.

  Seneca’s sources on the island of Capri no longer seemed to be in favor with the emperor, so he didn’t know if Tiberius would commute Apronius’s sentence or not. “In some ways,” Seneca said, “it might be better if he doesn’t. You saw how the people love Apronius. His execution would only fuel the anti-Tiberius sentiment.”

  It seemed like a heartless comment to me. Apronius was a decent man, honest and courageous. How could his execution be good for Rome? Nevertheless, I was in no position to argue with Seneca. Actually, I was in no state of mind to argue with anyone.

  Before he dismissed me, Seneca let me know that he was working on a backup plan to save Apronius. In a final dig at my wine-fueled conduct the night before, he said he couldn’t share the details with me. “Loose lips could get us all condemned,” he said.

  Out of everything he said that day, this last comment was the one that hurt the most. He no longer trusted me with confidential information. It wasn’t bad enough that I had alienated most of the Senate or that my client was scheduled to be executed in eight days. On top of all that, I now had to rebuild trust with the one man who had believed in me when nobody else had.

  That night I met with Pontius Pilate at his estate and agreed, at his request, to represent him in his upcoming malfeasance trial. We talked about the charges against him—the way he had used sacred tithes from the Jewish Temple to pay for the aqueduct, the slaughter of the Jews by his soldiers who had hidden daggers in their cloaks, the impertinent display of the shields in the Praetorium, and the slaughter of the Samaritans when they tried to worship. He was also being charged with releasing the notorious Barabbas and not reporting that release to Caesar. I felt personally responsible for that one, though Pilate was kind enough not to remind me whose idea it had been.

  Ironically, my greatest regret from my time in Judea, the trial where we had sentenced Jesus of Nazareth to die, was not listed among Pilate’s charges. Yet somehow, like Procula, I couldn’t help but think that all these calamities we were experiencing were tied to that one event.

  “We have no chance of winning, do we?” Pilate asked. The conviction of Apronius was hanging heavy in the room. If the senators were so quick to convict one of
their own, what would they do with an outsider like Pilate?

  My research wasn’t encouraging. A man named Gaius Junius Silanus, a prefect in Asia, had been recalled and tried on remarkably similar charges. Extortion. Brutality. General offenses against the divinity and majesty of Caesar.

  I described the trial of Silanus for Pilate. The man’s lawyer had brought in revenue scrolls and account books to defend against the extortion charges. But the other offenses were murky and open to interpretation. Former members of his staff testified against him. His slaves were tortured until they confirmed the allegations. That trial had been held before Tiberius retreated to Capri, and Tiberius himself had presided. Silanus was found guilty.

  Pilate listened intently and took another drink from the wineglass that seemed to be perpetually in his hand. “What happens if I lose?” he asked.

  I explained the consequences in the same straightforward manner that Pilate had always appreciated. He would probably be exiled. His will would be invalidated. His possessions and wealth would be confiscated and divided among those who had prosecuted him.

  “I spent my entire life trying to appease Caesar,” Pilate muttered. “And look where it got me.”

  We spent several hours that night talking about our defense—witnesses we would call at trial, accomplishments that could offset some of the charges, and senators who could be counted on to help argue our case. But I could tell that Pilate’s heart wasn’t in it.

  It occurred to me that night how thoroughly the tables had turned. The prefect was now the defendant, facing his own unjust tribunal. The charges against him were as vague and politically motivated as they had been against some of the Jewish defendants whom Pilate had sentenced to death. I hoped that my friend could muster half the courage I had seen displayed by Jesus of Nazareth.