“Cicero, the great lawyer, who thinks himself so clever!” said Verres bitterly, his words slurred by drink. “Who thinks he knows everything! Well, here is something you do not know. I have Heracleo in my private custody, here in my house in Rome, and he can tell you all himself that it is a lie!”
Amazing now, to reflect that a man could blurt out something so foolish, but the facts are there—they are in the record—and amid the pandemonium in court, Cicero could be heard demanding of Glabrio that the famous pirate be fetched from Verres’s house by the lictors and placed in proper official custody, “for the public safety.” Then, while that was being done, he called as his second witness of the day Gaius Numitorius. Privately I thought that Cicero was rushing it too much: that he could have milked the admission about Heracleo for more. But the great advocate had sensed that the moment of the kill had arrived, and for months, ever since we had first landed in Sicily, he had known exactly the blade he wished to use. Numitorius swore an oath to tell the truth and took the stand, and Cicero quickly led him through his testimony to establish the essential facts about Publius Gavius: that he was a merchant traveling on a ship from Spain; that his ship had been impounded and the passengers all taken to the Stone Quarries, from which Gavius had somehow managed to escape; that he had made his way to Messana to take a ship to the mainland, had been apprehended as he went aboard, and had been handed over to Verres when he visited the town. The silence of the listening multitudes was intense.
“Describe to the court what happened next.”
“Verres convened a tribunal in the forum of Messana,” said Numitorius, “and then he had Gavius dragged before him. He announced to everyone that this man was a spy, for which there was only one just penalty. Then he ordered a cross set up overlooking the straits to Regium, so that the prisoner could gaze upon Italy as he died, and had Gavius stripped naked and publicly flogged before us all. Then he was tortured with hot irons. And then he was crucified.”
“Did Gavius speak at all?”
“Only at the beginning, to swear that the accusation was not true. He was not a foreign spy. He was a Roman citizen, a councillor from the town of Consa, and a former soldier in the Roman cavalry, under the command of Lucius Raecius.”
“What did Verres say to that?”
“He said that these were lies and commanded that the execution begin.”
“Can you describe how Gavius met his dreadful death?”
“He met it very bravely, senator.”
“Like a Roman?”
“Like a Roman.”
“Did he cry out at all?”
“Only while he was being whipped and he could see the irons being heated.”
“And what did he say?”
“Every time a blow landed, he said, ‘I am a Roman citizen.’”
“Would you repeat what he said, more loudly please, so that all can hear.”
“He said, ‘I am a Roman citizen.’”
“So just that?” said Cicero. “Let me be sure I understand you. A blow lands”—he put his wrists together, raised them above his head, and jerked forward, as if his back had just been lashed—“and he says through gritted teeth, ‘I am a Roman citizen.’ A blow lands”—and again he jerked forward—“‘I am a Roman citizen.’ A blow lands. ‘I am a Roman citizen.’”
The flat words of my transcript cannot hope to convey the effect of Cicero’s performance upon those who saw it. The hush around the court amplified his words. It was as if all of us now were witnesses to this monstrous miscarriage of justice. Some men and women—friends of Gavius, I believe—began to scream, and there was a growing swell of outrage from the masses in the Forum. Yet again, Verres shook off Hortensius’s restraining hand and stood up. “He was a filthy spy!” he bellowed. “A spy! He only said it to delay his proper punishment!”
“But he said it!” said Cicero triumphantly, wheeling on him, his finger jabbing in outrage. “You admit he said it! Out of your own mouth I accuse you—the man claimed to be a Roman citizen, and you did nothing! This mention of his citizenship did not lead you to hesitate or delay, even for a little, the infliction of this cruel and disgusting death! If you, Verres, had been made a prisoner in Persia or the remotest part of India and were being dragged off to execution, what cry would you be uttering, except that you were a Roman citizen? What then of this man whom you were hurrying to his death? Could not that statement, that claim of citizenship, have saved him for an hour, for a day, while its truth was checked? No it could not—not with you in the judgment seat! And yet the poorest man, of humblest birth, in whatever savage land, has always until now had the confidence to know that the cry ‘I am a Roman citizen’ is his final defense and sanctuary. It was not Gavius, not one obscure man, whom you nailed upon that cross of agony: it was the universal principle that Romans are free men!”
The roar that greeted the end of Cicero’s tirade was terrifying. Rather than diminishing after a few moments, it gathered itself afresh and rose in volume and pitch, and I became aware, at the periphery of my vision, of a movement toward us. The awnings under which some of the spectators had been standing began to collapse with a terrible tearing sound. A man dropped off a balcony onto the crowd. There were screams. An unmistakable lynch mob began storming the steps to the platform. Hortensius and Verres stood up so quickly in their panic that they knocked over the bench behind them. Glabrio could be heard yelling that the court was adjourned, then he and his lictors hastened up the remaining steps toward the temple, with the accused and his eminent counsel in undignified pursuit. Some of the jury also fled into the sanctuary of the holy building (but not Catulus: I distinctly remember him standing like a sharp rock, staring unflinchingly ahead, as the current of bodies broke and swirled around him). The heavy bronze doors slammed shut. It was left to Cicero to try to restore order by climbing onto his own bench and gesturing for calm, but four or five men, rough-looking fellows, ran up and seized his legs and lifted him away. I was terrified, both for his safety and my own, but he stretched out his arms as if he was embracing the whole world. When they had settled him on their shoulders they spun him around to face the Forum. The blast of applause was like the opening of a furnace door and the chant of “Cic-er-o! Cic-er-o! Cic-er-o!” split the skies of Rome.
AND THAT, AT LAST, was the end of Gaius Verres. We never learned exactly what went on inside the temple after Glabrio suspended the sitting, but Cicero’s opinion was that Hortensius and Metellus made it clear to their client that further defense was useless. Their own dignity and authority were in tatters: they simply had to cut him adrift before any more harm was done to the reputation of the Senate. It no longer mattered how lavishly he had bribed the jury—no member of it would dare to vote to acquit him after the scenes they had just witnessed. At any rate, Verres slipped out of the temple when the mob had dispersed, and he fled the city at nightfall—disguised, some say, as a woman—riding full pelt for southern Gaul. His destination was the port of Massalia, where exiles could traditionally swap their hard-luck stories and pretend they were on the bay of Naples.
All that remained to do now was to fix the level of his fine, and when Cicero returned home he called a meeting to discuss the appropriate figure. Nobody will ever know the full value of what Verres stole during his years in Sicily—I have heard an estimate of forty million—but Lucius, as usual, was eager for the most radical course: the seizure of every asset Verres possessed. Quintus thought ten million would be about right. Cicero was curiously silent for a man who had just recorded such a stupendous victory, and he sat in his study moodily toying with a metal stylus. Early in the afternoon, we received a message from Hortensius, relaying an offer from Verres to pay one million into court as compensation. Lucius was particularly appalled—“an insult,” he called it—and Cicero had no hesitation in sending the man away with a flea in his ear. An hour later he was back, with what Hortensius called his “final figure”: a settlement of one and a half million. This time, Cicero dictated a
longer reply:
From: Marcus Tullius Cicero
To: Quintus Hortensius Hortalus
Greetings!
In view of the ludicrously low sum your client is proposing as compensation for his unparalleled wickedness, I intend asking Glabrio to allow me to continue the prosecution tomorrow, when I shall exercise my right to address the court on this and other matters.
“Let us see how much he and his aristocratic friends relish the prospect of having their noses rubbed further into their own filth,” he exclaimed to me. I finished sealing the letter, and when I returned from giving it to the messenger he set about dictating the speech he proposed to deliver the next day—a slashing attack on the aristocrats for prostituting their great names, and the names of their ancestors, in defense of such a scoundrel as Verres. Urged on by Lucius in particular, he poured out his loathing. “We are aware with what jealousy, with what dislike, the merit and energy of ‘new men’ are regarded by certain of the ‘nobles’; that we have only to shut our eyes for a moment to find ourselves caught in some trap; that if we leave them the smallest opening for any suspicion or charge of misconduct, we have to suffer for it at once; that we must never relax our vigilance, and never take a holiday. We have enemies—let us face them; tasks to perform—let us shoulder them; not forgetting that an open and declared enemy is less formidable than one who hides himself and says nothing!”
“There go another thousand votes,” muttered Quintus.
The afternoon wore on in this way, without any answer from Hortensius, until, at length, not long before dusk, there was a commotion from the street, and soon afterwards Eros came running into the study with the breathless news that Pompey the Great himself was in the vestibule. This was indeed extraordinary, but Cicero and his brother had time to do no more than blink at one another before that familiar military voice could be heard barking, “Where is he? Where is the greatest orator of the age?”
Cicero muttered an oath beneath his breath and went out into the tablinum, followed by Quintus, then Lucius, and finally myself, just in time to see the senior consul come striding out of the atrium. The confines of that modest house made him bulk even larger than he did normally. “And there he is!” he exclaimed. “There is the man whom everyone comes to see!” He made straight for Cicero, threw his powerful arms around him, and embraced him in a bear hug. From where I was standing, just behind Cicero, I could see his crafty gray eyes taking in each of us in turn, and when he released his embarrassed host, he insisted on being introduced, even to me, so that I—a humble domestic slave from Arpinum—could now boast, at the age of thirty-four, that I had shaken hands with both the ruling consuls of Rome.
He had left his bodyguards out in the street and had come into the house entirely alone, a significant mark of trust and favor. Cicero, whose manners as always were impeccable, ordered Eros to tell Terentia that Pompey the Great was downstairs, and I was instructed to pour some wine.
“Only a little,” said Pompey, putting his large hand over the cup. “We are on our way to dinner, and shall only stay a moment. But we could not pass our neighbor without calling in to pay our respects. We have been watching your progress, Cicero, over these past few days. We have been receiving reports from our friend Glabrio. Magnificent. We drink your health.” He raised his cup, but not a drop, I noticed, touched his lips. “And now that this great enterprise is successfully behind you, we hope that we may see a little more of you, especially as I shall soon be merely a private citizen again.”
Cicero gave a slight bow. “That would be my pleasure.”
“The day after tomorrow, for example—how are you placed?”
“That is the day of the opening of your games. Surely you will be occupied? Perhaps some other time—”
“Nonsense. Come and watch the opening from our box. It will do you no harm to be seen in our company. Let the world observe our friendship,” he added grandly. “You enjoy the games, do you not?”
Cicero hesitated, and I could see his brain working through the consequences, both of refusal and of acceptance. But really he had no choice. “I adore the games,” he said. “I can think of nothing I would rather do.”
“Excellent.” Pompey beamed. At that moment Eros returned with a message that Terentia was lying down, unwell, and sent her apologies. “That is a pity,” said Pompey, looking slightly put out. “But let us hope there will be some future opportunity.” He handed me his untouched wine. “We must be on our way. No doubt you have much to do. Incidentally,” he said, turning on the threshold of the atrium, “have you settled on the level of the fine yet?”
“Not yet,” replied Cicero.
“What have they offered?”
“One and a half million.”
“Take it,” said Pompey. “You have covered them in shit. No need to make them eat it, too. It would be embarrassing to me personally and injurious to the stability of the state to proceed with this case further. You understand me?” He nodded in a friendly way and walked out. We heard the front door open and the commander of his bodyguard call his men to attention. The door closed. For a little while, nobody spoke.
“What a ghastly man,” said Cicero. “Bring me another drink.”
As I fetched the jug, I saw Lucius frowning. “What gives him the right to talk to you like that?” he asked. “He said it was a social visit.”
“‘A social visit!’ Oh, Lucius!” Cicero laughed. “That was a visit from the rent collector.”
“The rent collector? What rent do you owe him?” Lucius might have been a philosopher, but he was not a complete idiot. He realized then what had happened. “Oh, I understand!” A look of utter disgust came across his face, and he turned away.
“Spare me your superiority,” said Cicero, catching his arm. “I had no choice. Marcus Metellus had just drawn the extortion court. The jury was bribed. The hearing was fixed to fail. I was this far”—Cicero measured an inch with his thumb and forefinger—“from abandoning the whole prosecution. And then Terentia said to me ‘make your speech shorter’ and I realized that was the answer—to produce every document and every witness, and do it all in ten days, and shame them—that was it, Lucius: you understand me?—shame them before the whole of Rome, so they had no alternative except to find him guilty.”
In such a way did he speak, working all his persuasive powers on his cousin as if Lucius were a one-man jury which he needed to convince, reading his face, trying to find within it clues to the right words and arguments which would unlock his support.
“But Pompey,” said Lucius bitterly. “After what he did to you before!”
“All I needed, Lucius, was one thing—one tiny, tiny favor—and that was the assurance that I could proceed as I wished and call my witnesses straightaway. No bribery was involved; no corruption. I just knew I had to be sure to secure Glabrio’s consent beforehand. But I could hardly, as the prosecutor, approach the praetor of the court myself. So I racked my brains: who could?”
Quintus said, “There was only one man in Rome, Lucius.”
“Exactly. Only one man to whom Glabrio was honor-bound to listen. The man who had given him his son back, when his divorced wife died—Pompey.”
“But it was not a tiny favor,” said Lucius. “It was a massive interference. And now there is a massive price to be paid for it—and not by you, but by the people of Sicily.”
“The people of Sicily?” repeated Cicero, beginning to lose his temper. “The people of Sicily have never had a truer friend than me. There would never have been a prosecution without me. There would never have been an offer of one and a half million without me. By heaven, Gaius Verres would have been consul in two years’ time but for me! You cannot reproach me for abandoning the people of Sicily!”
“Then refuse his rent,” said Lucius, seizing hold of his hand. “Tomorrow, in court, press for the maximum damages, and to hell with Pompey. You have the whole of Rome on your side. That jury will not dare to go against you. Who cares about Pompey?
In five months’ time, as he says himself, he will not even be consul. Promise me.”
Cicero clasped Lucius’s hand fervently in both of his and gazed deep into his eyes—the old double-grip sincere routine, which I had seen so often in this very room. “I promise you,” he said. “I promise you I shall think about it.”
PERHAPS HE DID THINK ABOUT IT. Who am I to judge? But I doubt it can have occupied his thoughts for more than an instant. Cicero was no revolutionary. He never desired to set himself at the head of a mob, tearing down the state: and that would have been his only hope of survival, if he had turned Pompey against him as well as the aristocracy. “The trouble with Lucius,” he said, putting his feet up on the desk after his cousin had gone, “is that he thinks politics is a fight for justice. Politics is a profession.”
“Do you think Verres bribed Pompey to intervene, to lower the damages?” asked Quintus, voicing exactly the possibility that had occurred to me.
“It could be. More likely he simply wants to avoid being caught in the middle of a civil war between the people and the Senate. Speaking for myself, I would be happy to seize everything Verres possesses, and leave the wretch to live on Gaulish grass. But that is not going to happen, so we had better see how far we can make this one and a half million stretch.”
The three of us spent the rest of the evening compiling a list of the most worthy claimants, and after Cicero had deducted his own costs, of close to one hundred thousand, we reckoned he could just about manage to fulfill his obligations, at least to the likes of Sthenius, and to those witnesses who had traveled all the way to Rome. But what could one say to the priests? How could one put a price on looted temple statues made of gems and precious metals, long since broken up and melted down by Verres’s goldsmiths? And what payment could ever recompense the families and friends of Gavius and Herennius and the other innocents he had murdered? The work gave Cicero his first real taste of what it is like to have power—which is usually, when it comes down to it, a matter of choosing between equally unpalatable options—and fairly bitter he found it.
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