Imperium

by Robert Harris

  But Clodius did not seem in the least concerned. “May my ancestors and the gods bless this undertaking, and bring it to a fruitful conclusion.” He trotted briskly up to Orbius and gave him the postulatus, all neatly bound up in a cylinder, with a seal and a red ribbon, while his supporters applauded noisily, Caelius among them, until Cicero silenced him with a look. “Run and find my brother,” he said to him. “Inform him of what has happened, and tell him we need to meet at once.”

  “That is a job for a slave,” objected Caelius, with a pout, no doubt worried about losing face in front of his friends. “Surely Tiro here could go and fetch him?”

  “Do as you are ordered,” snapped Cicero, “and while you are at it, find Frugi as well. And be grateful I have not yet told your father of the disreputable company you are keeping.” That made Caelius shift himself, and he disappeared out of the Forum toward the Temple of Ceres, where the plebeian aediles were normally to be found at that hour of the morning. “I have spoiled him,” Cicero said wearily, as we climbed the hill back to the house, “and do you know why? It is because he has charm, that most cursed of all the gifts, and I never can stop myself indulging someone with charm.”

  As punishment, and also because he no longer fully trusted him, Cicero refused to let Caelius attend the day’s campaign meeting, but sent him off instead to write up a brief. He waited until he was out of the way before describing the morning’s events to Quintus and Frugi. Quintus was inclined to take a sanguine view, but Cicero was absolutely convinced that he would now have to fight Catilina for the consulship. “I have checked the calendar of the extortion court—you remember what that is like—and the truth is there is simply no chance of Catilina’s case being heard until July, which makes it impossible for him to be a consular candidate in this year. Therefore he comes inevitably into mine.” He suddenly pounded his fist on the desk and swore—a thing he rarely did. “I predicted exactly this outcome a year ago—Tiro is my witness.”

  Quintus said, “Perhaps Catilina will be found guilty and sent into exile?”

  “With that perfumed creature as his prosecutor? A man whom every slave in Rome knows to have been the lover of his own sister? No, no—you were right, Tiro. I should have taken down Catilina myself when I had the chance. He would have been easier to beat in court than he will be on the ballot.”

  “Perhaps it is not too late,” I suggested. “Perhaps Clodius could be persuaded to yield the prosecution to you.”

  “No, he will never do that,” said Cicero. “You had only to look at him—the arrogance of the fellow—a typical Claudian. This is his chance for glory, and he will not let it slip. You had better bring out our list of potential candidates, Tiro. We need to find ourselves a credible running mate—and quickly.”

  In those days consular candidates usually submitted themselves to the electorate in pairs, for each citizen cast two votes for consul and it was obviously good tactics to form an alliance with a man who would complement one’s own strengths during the canvass. What Cicero needed to balance his ticket was someone with a distinguished name who had wide appeal among the aristocracy. In return, he could offer them his own popularity among the pedarii and the lower classes, and the support of the electoral machine which he had built up in Rome. He had always thought that this would be easy enough to arrange when the time came. But now, as we reviewed the names on the list, I saw why he was becoming so anxious. Palicanus would bring nothing to the ticket. Cornificius was an electoral no-hoper. Hybrida had only half a brain. That left Galba and Gallus. But Galba was so aristocratic, he would have nothing to do with Cicero, and Gallus—despite all Cicero’s pleadings—had said firmly that he had no interest in becoming consul.

  “Can you believe it?” complained Cicero as we huddled around his desk, studying the list of likely runners. “I offer the man the greatest job in the world, and he has to give me nothing in return except to stand at my side for a day or two. Yet he still says he would prefer to concentrate on jurisprudence!” He took up his pen and crossed out Gallus’s name, then added Catilina’s to the bottom of the list. He tapped his pen beside it idly, underlined it, circled it, then glanced at each of us. “Of course, there is one other potential partner we have not mentioned.”

  “And who is that?” asked Quintus.

  “Catilina.”

  “Marcus!”

  “I am perfectly serious,” said Cicero. “Let’s think it through. Suppose, instead of attempting to prosecute him, I offer to defend him. If I secure his acquittal, he will be under an obligation to support me for consul. On the other hand, if he is found guilty and goes into exile—then that is the end of him. Either outcome is acceptable as far as I am concerned.”

  “You would defend Catilina?” Quintus was well used to his brother, and it took a great deal to shock him, but on that day he was almost speechless.

  “I would defend the blackest devil in hell if he was in need of an advocate. That is our system of law.” Cicero frowned and shook his head irritably. “But we went over all this with poor Lucius just before he died. Come on, brother—spare me the reproachful face! You wrote the book: ‘I am a new man. I seek the consulship. This is Rome.’ Those three things—they say it all. I am a new man, therefore there is no one to help me but myself, and you few friends. I seek the consulship, which is immortality—a prize worth fighting for, yes? And this is Rome—Rome—not some abstract place in a work of philosophy, but a city of glory built on a river of filth. So yes, I will defend Catilina, if that is what is necessary, and then I will break with him as soon as I can. And he would do the same to me. That is the world we live in.” Cicero sat back in his chair and raised his hands. “Rome.”

  CICERO DID NOT MAKE A MOVE immediately, preferring to wait and see whether the prosecution of Catilina would definitely go ahead. There was a widespread view that Clodius was simply showing off, or perhaps trying to distract attention from the shame of his sister’s divorce. But in the lumbering way of the law, as the summer came on, the process passed through all its various stages—the postulatio, divinatio, and nominas delatio—a jury was selected and a date was fixed for the start of the trial in the last week of July. There was no chance now that Catilina would be free of litigation in time for the consular elections; nominations had already closed.

  At this point, Cicero decided to let Catilina know that he might be interested in acting as his advocate. He gave much thought as to how to convey the offer, for he did not wish to lose face by being rebuffed, and also wanted to be able to deny ever making an approach in case he was challenged in the Senate. In the end he hit upon a characteristically subtle scheme. He called Caelius to his study, swore him to secrecy, and announced that he had it in mind to defend Catilina: what did he think? (“But not a word to anyone, mind!”) This was exactly the sort of gossip which Caelius most delighted in, and naturally he could not resist sharing the confidence with his friends, among them Mark Antony—who, as well as being the nephew of Hybrida, was also the adopted son of Catilina’s close friend Lentulus Sura.

  I guess it must have taken all of a day and a half for a messenger to turn up on Cicero’s doorstep, bearing a letter from Catilina, asking him if he would care to visit, and proposing—in the interests of confidentiality—that the rendezvous be conducted after dusk. “And so the fish bites,” said Cicero, showing me the letter, and he sent back with the slave a verbal reply that he would attend on Catilina in his house that same night.

  Terentia was now very close to parturition and was finding the heat of Rome in July insufferable. She lay, restless and groaning, on a couch in the stifling dining room, Tullia on one side reading to her in a piping voice, a maid with a fan on the other. Her temper, warm in the best of circumstances, was in these days permanently inflamed. As darkness fell and the candelabra were lit, she saw that Cicero was preparing to leave, and immediately demanded to know where he was going. When he gave a vague reply, she tearfully insisted that he must have taken a concubine and was visiting
her, for why else would a respectable man go out of doors at this hour? And so, reluctantly, he told her the truth, that he was calling on Catilina. Of course this did not mollify her in the slightest, but only enraged her further. She demanded to know how he could bear to spend a moment in the company of the monster who had debauched her own sister, a vestal virgin, to which Cicero responded with some quip about Fabia having always been “more vestal than virgin.” Terentia struggled to rise but failed, and her furious invective pursued us all the way out of the house, much to Cicero’s amusement.

  It was a night very like the one on the eve of the elections for aedile when he had gone to see Pompey. There was the same oppressive heat and feverish moonlight; the same slight breeze stirred the smell of putrefaction from the burial fields beyond the Esquiline Gate and spread it over the city like an invisible moist dust. We went down into the Forum, where the slaves were lighting the streetlamps, past the silent, darkened temples, and up onto the Palatine, where Catilina had his house. I was carrying a document case, as usual, and Cicero had his hands clasped behind his back and was walking with his head bowed in thought. Back then the Palatine was less built up than it is today, and the buildings were spaced farther apart. I could hear the sound of a stream nearby and there was a scent of honeysuckle and dog rose. “This is the place to live, Tiro,” said Cicero, halting on the steps. “This is where we shall come when there are no more elections to be fought, and I need take less account of what the people think. A place with a garden to read in—imagine that—and where the children can play.” He glanced back in the direction of the Esquiline. “It will be a relief to all concerned when this baby arrives. It is like waiting for a storm to break.”

  Catilina’s house was easy to find, for it was close by the Temple of Luna, which was painted white and lit up at night by torches, in honor of the moon goddess. A slave was waiting in the street to guide us, and he took us straight into the vestibule of the mansion of the Sergii, where a most beautiful woman greeted Cicero. This was Aurelia Orestilla, the wife of Catilina, whose daughter he was supposed to have seduced initially, before moving on to the mother, and for whose sake, it was rumored, he had murdered his own son by his first marriage (the lad having threatened to kill Aurelia rather than accept such a notorious courtesan into the family). Cicero knew all about her and cut off her effusive greeting with a curt nod. “Madame,” he said, “it is your husband I have come to see, not you,” at which she bit her lip and fell silent. It was one of the most ancient houses in Rome, and its timbers creaked as we followed the slave into the interior, which smelled of dusty old drapes and incense. One curious feature I remember was that it had been stripped almost bare, and obviously recently, for one could see the blurred rectangular outlines of where pictures had once hung, and circles of dust on the floor marked the absence of statues. All that remained in the atrium were the dingy wax effigies of Catilina’s ancestors, jaundiced by generations of smoke. This was where Catilina himself was standing, and the first surprise was how tall he was when one got close up—at least a head higher than Cicero—and the second was the presence behind him of Clodius. This must have been a terrific shock to Cicero, but he was far too cool a lawyer to show it. He shook hands quickly with Catilina, then with Clodius, and politely refused an offer of wine; the three men then turned straight to business.

  Looking back, I am struck by how alike Catilina and Clodius were. This was the only time I ever saw them in a room together, and they might have been father and son, with their drawling voices, and the way they stood together so languidly, as if the world were theirs to own. I suppose this is what is called “breeding.” It had taken four hundred years of intermarriage between the finest families in Rome to produce those two villains—as thoroughbred as Arab bloodstock, and just as quick and headstrong and dangerous.

  “This is the deal as we see it,” said Catilina. “Young Clodius here will make a brilliant speech for the prosecution and everyone will say he is the new Cicero and I am bound to be convicted. But then you, Cicero, will make an even more brilliant argument for the defense in reply, and therefore no one will be surprised when I am acquitted. At the end of it, we shall have put on a good show and we shall all emerge with our positions enhanced. I am declared innocent before the people of Rome. Clodius is acknowledged as the brave and coming man. And you will have won yet another splendid triumph in the courts, defending someone a cut above your usual run of clients.”

  “And what if the jury decides differently?”

  “You need not be concerned about them.” Catilina patted his pocket. “I have taken care of the jury.”

  “The law is so expensive,” said Clodius, with a smile. “Poor Catilina has had to sell his heirlooms to be sure of justice. It really is a scandal. How do people manage?”

  “I shall need to see the trial documents,” said Cicero. “How soon before the hearing opens?”

  “Three days,” said Catilina, and he gestured to a slave who was standing at the door. “Does that give you long enough to prepare?”

  “If the jury has already been convinced, I can make the speech in six words: ‘Here is Catilina. Let him go.’”

  “Oh, but I want the full Ciceronian production!” protested Catilina. “I want: ‘This nnnoble mmman…the bbblood of centuries…behold the tears of his wwwife and fffriends…’” He had his hand in the air and was twirling it expressively, crudely imitating Cicero’s almost imperceptible stutter. Clodius was laughing; they were both slightly drunk. “I want ‘African sssavages ssssullying this ancient cccourt…’ I want Carthage and Troy to be conjured before us, and Dido and Aeneas—”

  “You will get,” said Cicero, coldly cutting him off, “a professional job.” The slave had returned with the papers for the trial and I began rapidly piling them into my document case, for I could sense the atmosphere beginning to worsen as the drink took hold and I was anxious to get Cicero out of there. “We shall need to meet to discuss your evidence,” he continued, in the same chilly tone. “Tomorrow it had better be, if that is convenient to you.”

  “By all means. I have nothing better to do. I had been expecting to stand for the consulship this summer, as you well know, until this young mischief-maker put a stop to it.”

  It was the agility that was so shocking in a man of such height. He suddenly lunged forward and wrapped his powerful right arm around Clodius’s neck and dragged the younger man’s head down, so that Clodius was bent double. Poor Clodius—who was no weakling, incidentally—let out a muffled cry, and his fingers clawed feebly at Catilina’s arm. But the strength of Catilina was appalling, and I wondered whether he might not have broken his visitor’s neck with a quick upward flick of his forearm, if Cicero had not said calmly, “I must advise you, Catilina, as your defense attorney, that it would be a grievous mistake to murder your prosecutor.”

  Catilina swung around and frowned at him, as if he had momentarily forgotten who Cicero was. Then he laughed. He ruffled Clodius’s blond curls and let him go. Clodius staggered backward, coughing and massaging the side of his head and throat, and for an instant he gave Catilina a look of pure murder, but then he, too, started laughing, and straightened up. They embraced, Catilina called for some more wine, and we left them to it. “What a pair,” exclaimed Cicero, as we passed by the Temple of Luna on our way back home. “With any luck they will have killed each other by morning.”

  BY THE TIME we had returned to Cicero’s house, Terentia was in labor. There was no mistaking it. We could hear the screams from the street. Cicero stood in the atrium, white with shock and alarm, for he had been away when Tullia was born, and nothing in his philosophy books had prepared him for what was happening. “Dear heavens, it sounds as though she is being tortured. Terentia!” He started toward the staircase which led to her room, but one of the midwives intercepted him.

  We passed a long vigil in the dining room. He asked me to stay with him, but was at first too anxious to do any work. He lay stretched out on the same cou
ch Terentia had been occupying when we left, and then, when he heard another scream, he would jump up and pace around. The air was hot and heavy, the candle flames motionless, their black threads of smoke as rigid as plumb lines suspended from the ceiling. I busied myself by emptying my case of the court papers I had carried back from Catilina’s house and sorting them into categories—charges, depositions, summaries of documentary evidence. Eventually, to distract himself, Cicero, still prone on the couch, stretched out a hand and started reading, picking up one roll after another and holding each to the lamp which I placed beside him. He kept flinching and wincing, but I could not tell whether it was because of the continuing howls from upstairs or the horrific allegations against Catilina, for these were indeed the most appalling accounts of violence and rape, dispatched by almost every town in Africa, from Utica to Thaenae, and from Thapsus to Thelepte. After an hour or two, he tossed them aside in disgust and asked me to fetch some paper so that he could dictate a few letters, beginning with one to Atticus. He lay back and closed his eyes in an effort to concentrate. I have the very document before me now.

  “It is a long time since I had a line from you. I have already written to you in detail about my election campaign. At the moment I am proposing to defend my fellow candidate Catilina. We have the jury we want, with full cooperation from the prosecution. If he is acquitted I hope he will be more inclined to work with me in the campaign. But should it go otherwise, I shall bear it philosophically.”

  “Ha! That is certainly true enough.” He closed his eyes again.

  “I need you home pretty soon. There is a decidedly strong belief going around that your noble friends are going to oppose my election—”

  And at that point my writing stops, because instead of a scream we heard a different sound from above us—the gurgling cry of a baby. Cicero sprang from the couch and ran upstairs to Terentia’s room. It was some time before he reappeared, and when he did he silently took the letter from me and wrote across the top in his own hand: