Then came the final day of the trial, when Cicero himself was to give his final address to the jury. And there, seated on his ivory curule chair to one side of the president’s tribunal, was Lucius Cornelius Sulla.
The presence of the Dictator dismayed Cicero not a jot; instead, it pushed him to hitherto undreamed—of heights of eloquence and brilliance.
“There are three culprits in this hideous affair,” he said, declaiming not to the jury, but to Sulla. “The cousins Titus Roscius Capito and Titus Roscius Magnus are obvious, but actually secondary. What they did, they could not have done without the proscriptions. Without Lucius Cornelius…... Chrysogonus,” he said, pausing so long between the second and the third names that even Messala Niger began to think he might say, “Sulla.”
On went Cicero. “Who exactly is this ‘golden child’? This Chrysogonus? Let me tell you! He is a Greek. There is no disgrace in that. He is an ex-slave. There is no disgrace in that. He is a freedman. There is no disgrace in that. He is the client of Lucius Cornelius Sulla. There is no disgrace in that. He is rich. There is no disgrace in that. He is powerful. There is no disgrace in that. He is the administrator of the proscriptions. There is no disgrace in that—ooops! Ooops, ooops! I beg your collective pardons, Conscript Fathers! You see what happens when one bumps along in a rhetorical rut for too long? I got carried away! I could have gone on saying ‘There is no disgrace in that’ for hours! And oh, what a rhetorical ravine I would have dug for myself!”
Fairly launched, Cicero paused to revel consciously in what he was doing. “Let me say it again. He is the administrator of the proscriptions. And in that there is a monumental, a gigantic, an Olympian disgrace! Do all of you see this splendid man on his curule chair—this model of every Roman virtue, this general without rival, this lawmaker who has brokennew bounds of statesmanship, this brilliant jewel in the crown of the illustrious gens Cornelia? Do all of you see him? Sitting so calmly, Zeus—like in his detachment? Do all of you see him? Then look well!”
Now Cicero turned away from Sulla to glare at the jury from under his brows, a rather sticklike figure, so thin was he even in his toga; and yet he seemed to tower, to have the thews of Hercules and the majesty of Apollo.
“Some years ago this splendid man bought himself a slave. To be his steward. An excellent steward, as things turned out. When this splendid man’s late wife was forced to flee from Rome to Greece, his steward was there to help and console. His steward was there in complete charge of this splendid man’s dependents—wife and children and grandchildren and servants—while our great Lucius Cornelius Sulla strode up the Italian peninsula like a titan. His steward was trusted, and did not betray that trust. So he was freed, and took for himself the first two parts of a mighty name—Lucius Cornelius. As is the custom, for his third name he kept his own original name—Chrysogonus. The golden child. Upon whose head was heaped honor after honor, trust after trust, responsibility after responsibility. He was now not merely the freedman steward of a great household, but also the director, the administrator, the executor of that process which was designed to fulfill two aims: the first, to see a just and rightful punishment meted out to all those traitors who followed Marius, who followed Cinna, who even followed an insect as small as Carbo; and the second, to use the property and estates of traitors as fuel to fan poor impoverished Rome into the flame of prosperity again.”
Back and forth across the open space left in front of Marcus Fannius’s tribunal did Cicero stride, his left arm raised to hold his toga at its left shoulder, his right arm limply by his side. No one moved. Every eye was fixed upon him, men breathed in shallow gasps thinking they didn’t breathe at all.
“So what did he do, this Chrysogonus? All the while keeping his oily smiling bland face toward his employer, his patron, he slithered to exact his revenge on this one who had insulted him, on that one who had impeded him—he toiled mightily in the secret marches of the night with forger’s pen and patron’s trust to slip in this name and that name whose property he slavered for, to conspire with worms and vermin to enrich himself at the expense of his patron, at the expense of Rome. Ah, members of the jury, but he was cunning! How he plotted and schemed to cover his tracks, how he smarmed and greased in the presence of his patron, how he manipulated his little army of pimps and panders—how industriously he worked to make sure that his noble and illustrious patron could have no idea of what was really going on! For that is what happened. Given trust and authority, he abused both in the vilest and most despicable ways.”
The tears began to flow; Cicero sobbed aloud, wrung his hands, stood hunched over in a paroxysm of pain. “Oh, I cannot look at you, Lucius Cornelius Sulla! That it should be I—a mean and simple man from the Latin countryside—a hick, a hayseed, a bucolic shyster—that it should have to be I who must draw the wool from your eyes, who must open them to the—the—what adjective can I find adequate to describe the level of the treachery of your most esteemed client, Lucius Cornelius Chrysogonus? Vile treachery! Disgusting treachery! Despicable treachery! But none of those adjectives is low enough!”
The easy tears were dashed away. “Why did it have to be me? Would that it could have been anybody else! Would that it had been your Pontifex Maximus or your Master of the Horse—great men both, and hung about with honors! But instead the lot has fallen to me. I do not want it. But I must accept it. Because, members of the jury, which do you think I would rather do? Spare the great Lucius Cornelius Sulla this agony by saying nothing about the treachery of Chrysogonus, or spare the life of a man who, though accused of murdering his own father, has actually done nothing to warrant the charge? Yes, you are right! It must be the embarrassment, the public mortification of an honorable and distinguished and legendary man—because it cannot be the unjust conviction of an innocent man.” He straightened, drew himself up. “Members of the jury, I now rest my case.”
The verdict, of course, was a foregone conclusion: ABSOLVO. Sulla rose to his feet and strolled toward Cicero, who found the crowd around him melting away.
“Well done, my skinny young friend,” the Dictator said, and held out his hand. “What an actor you would have made!”
So exhilarated that he felt as if his feet were floating free in air, Cicero laughed, clasped the hand fervently. “What an actor I am, you mean! For what is superlative advocacy except acting out one’s own words?”
“Then you’ll end the Thespis of Sulla’s standing courts.”
“As long as you forgive me for the liberties I had to take in this case, Lucius Cornelius, I will be anything you like.”
“Oh, I forgive you!” said Sulla airily. “I think I could forgive almost anything if it meant I sat through a good show. And with only one exception, I’ve never seen a better amateur production, my dear Cicero. Besides, I’ve been wondering how to get rid of Chrysogonus for some time—I’m not entirely a fool, you know. But it can be ticklish.” The Dictator looked around. “Where is Sextus Roscius?”
Sextus Roscius was produced.
“Sextus Roscius, take back your lands and your reputation, and your dead father’s reputation,” said Sulla. “I am very sorry that the corruption and venality of one I trusted has caused you so much pain. But he will answer for it.”
“Thanks to the brilliance of my advocate, Lucius Cornelius, it has ended well,” said Sextus Roscius shakily.
“There is an epilogue yet to play,” said the Dictator, jerked his head at his lictors, and walked away in the direction of the steps which led up onto the Palatine.
The next day Lucius Cornelius Chrysogonus, who was a Roman citizen of the tribe Cornelia, was pitched headlong from the Tarpeian Rock.
“Think yourself lucky,” said Sulla to him beforehand. “I could have stripped you of your citizenship and had you flogged and crucified. You die a Roman death because you cared so well for my womenfolk when times were hard. I can do nothing more for you than that. I hired you originally because I knew you were a toad. What I didn’t count on was
becoming so busy that I was unable to keep an eye on you. But sooner or later it comes out. Bye—bye, Chrysogonus.”
The two cousins Roscius—Capito and Magnus—disappeared from Ameria before they could be apprehended and brought to trial; no further trace of them was ever discovered. As for Cicero, he was suddenly a great name and a hero besides. No one else had taken on the proscriptions and won.
2
Having been freed from his flaminate and ordered to do military duty under the governor of Asia Province, Marcus Minucius Thermus, Gaius Julius Caesar left for the east a month short of his nineteenth birthday, accompanied by two new servants and his German freedman, Gaius Julius Burgundus. Though most men heading for Asia Province sailed, Caesar had decided to go by land, a distance of eight hundred miles along the Via Egnatia from Apollonia in western Macedonia to Callipolis on the Hellespont. As it was summer by the calendar and the seasons, the journey was not uncomfortable, though devoid for the most part of the inns and posting houses so prevalent throughout Italy; those who went overland to Asia camped.
Because flamen Dialis was not allowed to travel, Caesar had been obliged to travel in his mind, which had devoured every book set in foreign parts, and imagined what the world might look like. Not, he soon learned, as it really was; but the reality was so much more satisfying than imagination! As for the act of travel—even Caesar, so eloquent, could not find the words to describe it. For in him was a born traveler, adventurous, curious, insatiably eager to sample everything. As he went he talked to the whole world, from shepherds to salesmen, from mercenaries looking for work to local chieftains. His Greek was Attic and superlative, but all those odd tongues he had picked up from infancy because his mother’s insula contained a polyglot mixture of tenants now stood him in good stead; not because he was lucky enough to find people who spoke them as he went along, but because his intelligence was attuned to strange words and accents, so he was able to hear the Greek in some strange patois, and discern foreign words in basic Greek. It made him a good traveler, in that he was never lost for means of communication.
It would have been wonderful to have had Bucephalus to ride, of course, but young and trusty Flop Ears the mule was not a contemptuous steed in any way save appearance; there were times when Caesar fancied it owned claws rather than hooves, so surefooted was it on rough terrain. Burgundus rode his Nesaean giant, and the two servants rode very good horses—if he himself was on his honor not to bestride any mount except Flop Ears, then the world would have to accept this as an eccentricity, and understand from the caliber of his servants’ horses that he was not financially unable to mount himself well. How shrewd Sulla was! For that was where it hurt—Caesar liked to make a good appearance, to dazzle everyone he encountered. A little difficult on a mule!
The first part of the Via Egnatia was the wildest and most inhospitable, for the road, unpaved but well surveyed, climbed the highlands of Candavia, tall mountains which probably hadn’t changed much since well before the time of Alexander the Great. A few flocks of sheep, and once in the distance a sight of mounted warriors who might have been Scordisci, were all the evidence of human occupation the travelers saw. From Macedonian Edessa, where the fertile river valleys and plains offered a better livelihood, men became more numerous and settlements both larger and closer together. In Thessalonica, Caesar sought and was given accommodation in the governor’s palace, a welcome chance to bathe in hot water—ablutions since leaving Apollonia had been in river or lake, and very cold, even in summer. Though invited to stay longer, Caesar remained only one day there before journeying on.
Philippi—the scene of several battles of fame and recently occupied by one of the sons of King Mithridates—he found interesting because of its history and its strategic position on the flanks of Mount Pangaeus; though even more interesting was the road to the east of it, where he could see the military possibilities inherent in the narrow passes before the countryside flattened a little and the terrain became easier again. And finally there lay before him the Gulf of Melas, mountain—ringed but fertile; a crust of ridge beyond it and the Hellespont came into view, more than merely a narrow strait. It was the place where Helle tumbled from the back of the Golden Ram and gave her name to the waters, it was the site of the Clashing Rocks which almost sank the Argo, it was the place where armies of Asiatic kings from Xerxes to Mithridates had poured in their thousands upon thousands from Asia into Thrace. The Hellespont was the true crossroads between East and West.
In Callipolis, Caesar took ship at last for the final leg of his journey, aboard a vessel which had room to accommodate the horses, the mule and the pack animals, and which was sailing direct to Pergamum. He was hearing now of the revolt of Mitylene and the siege which was under way, but his orders were to report in Pergamum; he could only hope he would be posted to a war zone.
But the governor, Marcus Minucius Thermus, had other duties in mind for Caesar. “It’s vital that we contain this rebellion,” he said to this new junior military tribune, “because it’s caused by the new system of taxation the Dictator has put into Asia Province. Island states like Lesbos and Chios were very well off under Mithridates, and they’d love to see the end of Rome. Some cities on the mainland feel much the same. If Mitylene succeeds in holding out for a year, we’ll have other places thinking they can revolt too. One of the difficulties in containing Mitylene is its double harbor, and the fact that we don’t have a proper fleet. So you, Gaius Julius, are going to see King Nicomedes in Bithynia and levy a fleet from him. When you’ve gathered it, I want you to sail it to Lesbos and put it at the disposal of my legate, Lucullus, who is in charge of the investment.”
“You’ll have to forgive my ignorance, Marcus Minucius,” said Caesar, “but how long does it take to gather a fleet, and how many vessels of what kind do you want?’’
“It takes forever,” said Thermus wearily, “and you’ll get whatever the King can scrape together—or it might be more accurate to say that you’ll get as little as the King can escape with. Nicomedes is no different from any other oriental potentate.”
The nineteen-year-old frowned, not pleased at this answer, and proceeded to demonstrate to Thermus that he owned a great deal of natural—though not unattractive—arrogance. “That’s not good enough,” he said. “What Rome wants, Rome must have.”
Thermus couldn’t help himself; he laughed. “Oh, you have a lot to learn, young Caesar!” he said.
That didn’t sit well. Caesar compressed his lips and looked very like his mother (whom Thermus didn’t know, or he might have understood Caesar better). “Well, Marcus Minucius, why don’t you tell me your ideal delivery date and your ideal fleet composition?” he asked haughtily. “Then I will take it upon myself to deliver your ideal fleet on your ideal date.”
Thermus’s jaw dropped, and for a moment he genuinely didn’t know how best to answer. That this superb self-confidence did not provoke a fit of anger in him, he himself found interesting; nor this time did the young man’s arrogance provoke laughter. The governor of Asia Province actually found himself believing that Caesar truly thought himself capable of doing what he said. Time and King Nicomedes would rectify the mistake, but that Caesar could make it was indeed interesting, in view of the letter from Sulla which Caesar had presented to him.
He has some claim on me through marriage, this making him my nephew, but I wish to make it abundantly clear that I do not want him favored. In fact, do not favor him! I want him given difficult things to do, and difficult offices to occupy. He owns a formidable intelligence coupled with high courage, and it’s possible he’ll do extremely well.
However, if I exclude Caesar’s conduct during the course of two interviews with me, his history to date has been uninspiring, thanks to his being the flamen Dialis. From this he is now released, legally and religiously. But it means that he has not done military service, so his valor may simply be verbal.
Test him, Marcus Minucius, and tell my dear Lucullus to do the same. If he breaks, y
ou have my full permission to be as ruthless as you like in punishing him. If he does not break, I expect you to give him his due.
I have a last, if peculiar, request. If at any time you witness or learn that Caesar has ridden a better animal than his mule, send him home at once in disgrace.
In view of this letter, Thermus, recovering from his utter stupefaction, said in even tones, “All right, Gaius Julius, I’ll give you a time and a size. Deliver the fleet to Lucullus’s camp on the Anatolian shore to the north of the city on the Kalends of November. You won’t stand a chance of prising one vessel but of old Nicomedes by then, but you asked for a delivery date, and the Kalends of November would be ideal—we’d be able to cut off both harbors before the winter—and give them a hard one. As to size: forty ships, at least half of which should be decked triremes or larger. Again, you’ll be lucky if you get thirty ships, and of those, about five decked triremes.”
Thermus looked stern. “However, young Caesar, since you opened your mouth, I feel it my duty to warn you that if you are late or if the fleet is less than ideal, it will go against you in my report to Rome.”
“As it should,” said Caesar, undismayed.
“You may have rooms here in the palace for the time being,” said Thermus cordially; despite Sulla’s giving him permission, it was no part of Thermus’s policy to antagonize someone related to the Dictator.
“No, I’m off to Bithynia today,” said Caesar, moving toward the door.
“There’s no need to overdo it, Gaius Julius!”
“Perhaps not. But there’s every need to get going,” said Caesar, and got going.
It was some time before Thermus went back to his endless paperwork. What an extraordinary fellow! Very well mannered, but in that inimitable way only patricians of the great families seemed to own; the young man left it in no doubt that he liked all men and felt himself superior to none, while at the same time knowing himself superior to all save (perhaps) a Fabius Maximus. Impossible to define, but that was the way they were, especially the Julians and the Fabians. So good-looking! Having no sexual liking for men, Thermus pondered about Caesar in that respect; looks of Caesar’s kind very often predisposed their possessors toward a sexual liking for men. Yet, he decided, Caesar had not behaved preciously at all.
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