“Not everyone is against you, Marcus,” said Atticus as they walked up the Alta Semita to Atticus’s magnificent house right on top of the Quirinal heights.
“But too many are,” said Cicero miserably. “Oh, Titus, we had to get rid of those wretched conspirators!”
“I know.” Atticus stopped at a place where a large expanse of vacant ground permitted a wonderful view of the Campus Martius, the sinuous curve of the Tiber, the Vatican plain and hill beyond. “If Rabirius’s trial is still on, we’ll see it from here.”
But the grassy space adjacent to the saepta was quite deserted; whatever old Rabirius’s fate, it was already decided.
“Who did you send to hear the two Caesars?” asked Atticus.
“Tiro in a toga.”
“Risky for Tiro.”
“Yes, but I can trust him to give me an exact account, and I can’t say that of anyone else other than you. You, I needed in the Popular Assembly.” Cicero gave a grunt of what might have been laughter or pain. “The Popular Assembly! What a travesty.”
“You have to admit Caesar’s clever.”
“I do that! But what makes you say it now, Titus?”
“His condition that the penalty in the Centuries be altered from death to exile and a fine. Now that they don’t have to see Rabirius flogged and beheaded, I think the Centuries will vote to convict him.”
It was Cicero’s turn to stop. “They wouldn’t!”
“They will. Trial, Marcus, trial! Men outside the Senate don’t possess real political forethought, they see politics as it affects their own hides! So they have no idea how dangerous it would have been for Rome to keep those men alive to undergo trial in the full glare of the Forum. All they see is how their own hides are threatened when citizens are executed—even self-confessed traitors!—without benefit of trial or appeal.”
“My actions saved Rome! I saved my country!”
“And there are plenty who agree with you, Marcus, believe me. Wait until feelings die down and you’ll see. At the moment those feelings are being worked on by some genuine experts, from Caesar to Publius Clodius.”
“Publius Clodius?”
“Oh yes, very much so. He’s collecting quite a following, didn’t you know it? Of course he specializes in attracting the lowly, but he also has quite a bit of influence among the more minor businessmen. Entertains them lavishly and gives them a lot of custom—presents for the lowly, for instance,” said Atticus.
“But he’s not even in the Senate yet!”
“He will be in twelve months.”
“Fulvia’s money must be a help.”
“It is.”
“How do you know so much about Publius Clodius? Through your friendship with Clodia? And why are you friends with Clodia?”
“Clodia,” said Atticus deliberately, “is one of those women I like to call professional virgins. They pant and palpitate and pout at every man they meet, but let a man try to assault their virtue and they run screaming, usually to a besotted husband. So they prefer to mix intimately with men who are no danger to their virtue—homosexuals like me.”
Cicero swallowed, tried vainly not to blush, didn’t know where to look. This was the first time he had ever heard Atticus speak that word, let alone admit it applied to him.
“Don’t be embarrassed, Marcus,” said Atticus with a laugh. “Today isn’t an ordinary day, is all. Forget I said it.”
*
Terentia did not mince matters, but the words she used were all of a variety permitted to women of her quality.
“You saved your country,” she said harshly at the end of it.
“Not until Catilina is defeated in the field.”
“How can you think he won’t be?”
“Well, my armies certainly don’t seem to be doing much at the moment! Hybrida’s gout is still the chief thing on his mind, Rex has found a comfortable billet in Umbria, the Gods only know what Metellus Creticus is doing in Apulia, and Metellus Celer is intent on fueling Caesar’s fire here in Rome.”
“It will be finished by the New Year, wait and see.”
What Cicero most wanted to do was to pillow his head on his wife’s very nice breast and weep until his eyes were sore, but that, he understood, would not be permitted. So he stilled his wobbling lip and drew a long breath, unable to look at Terentia for fear she’d comment on the glisten of tears.
“Tiro has reported?” she asked.
“Oh, yes. The two Caesars pronounced a sentence of death on Rabirius after the most disgraceful display of partisan bigotry in the history of Rome. Labienus was allowed to run rampant—he even had actors there wearing the masks of Saturninus and Uncle Quintus, who came out of it looking like Vestals rather than the traitors they were. And he had Quintus’s two sons—both over forty!—there weeping like little children because Gaius Rabirius deprived them of their tata! The audience howled in sympathy and threw flowers. Not surprising, it was a scintillating performance. The two Caesars had the cant down pat—’Go, lictor, tie his hands! Go, lictor, attach him to the stake and scourge him! Go, lictor, transfix him on a barren tree!’ Tchah!”
“But Rabirius appealed.”
“Of course.”
“And it is to be tomorrow in the Centuries. According to Glaucia, I hear, but limited to one hearing only because of the lack of witnesses and evidence.” Terentia snorted. “If that in itself can’t tell the jury what a lot of nonsense the charge is, then I despair of Roman intellect!”
“I despaired of it some time ago,” said Cicero wryly. He got to his feet, feeling very old. “If you’ll excuse me, my dear, I won’t eat. I’m not hungry. It’s getting toward sunset, so I’d better go and see Gaius Rabirius. I’ll be defending him.”
“With Hortensius?”
“And Lucius Cotta, I hope. He makes a useful first man up, and he works particularly well with Hortensius.”
“You’ll speak last, naturally.”
“Naturally. An hour and a half should be ample, if Lucius Cotta and Hortensius will agree to less than an hour each.”
*
But when Cicero saw the condemned man at his very luxurious and fortresslike residence on the Carinae, he discovered that Gaius Rabirius had other ideas for his defense.
The day had taken it out of the old man; he shook and blinked rheumily as he settled Cicero in a comfortable chair in his big and dazzling atrium. The senior consul gazed about like a rustic on his first visit to Rome, wondering whether he would be able to afford to adopt this kind of decor in his new house when he found the money to buy one; the room cried out to be copied in a consular’s residence, though perhaps not so ostentatiously. Its ceiling was awash with glittering gem-studded golden stars, its walls had been sheeted in real gold, its pillars had been gold-sheathed too, and even the long shallow impluvium pool was tiled with gold squares.
“Like my atrium, eh?” asked Gaius Rabirius, looking lizardlike.
“Very much,” said Cicero.
“Pity I don’t entertain, eh?”
“A great pity. Though I see why you live in a fortress.”
“Waste of money, entertaining. I put my fortune on my walls, safer than a bank if you live in a fortress.”
“Don’t the slaves try to peel it off?”
“Only if they fancy crucifixion.”
“Yes, that would deter them.”
The old man clenched both hands around the lion’s head ends on the gilded arms of his gilded chair. “I love gold,” he said. “Such a pretty color.”
“Yes, it is.”
“So you want to lead my defense, eh?”
“Yes, I do.”
“And how much are you going to cost me?”
It was on the tip of Cicero’s tongue to say a sheet of gold ten by ten would do nicely, thank you, but he smiled instead. “I regard your case as so important for the future of the Republic, Gaius Rabirius, that I will defend you for nothing.”
“So you should, too.”
And thus muc
h for gratitude at obtaining the services of Rome’s greatest advocate free of charge. Cicero swallowed. “Like all my fellow senators, Gaius Rabirius, I’ve known you for years, but I don’t know a great deal about you aside from”—he cleared his throat—”er, what might be called common gossip. I shall need to ask you some questions now in order to prepare my speech.”
“Won’t give you any answers, so save your breath. Make it up.”
“Out of common gossip?”
“Like my being in on Oppianicus’s activities in Larinum, you mean? You did defend Cluentius.”
“But never mentioned you, Gaius Rabirius.”
“Good thing you didn’t. Oppianicus died long before Cluentius was tried, how would anyone know the true story? You did a lovely bit of embroidering lies, Cicero, which is why I don’t mind your leading my defense. No, no, don’t mind at all! You managed to imply that Oppianicus murdered more of his relations than rumor says Catilina has. All for gain! Yet Oppianicus didn’t have walls of gold in his house. Interesting, eh?”
“I wouldn’t know,” said Cicero feebly. “I never saw his house.”
“I own half of Apulia and I’m a hard man, but I don’t deserve to be sent into exile for something Sulla put me and fifty other fellows up to. Lots of more important fish than me were on the Curia Hostilia roof. Lots of names like Servilius Caepio and Caecilius Metellus. Front bench most of them were, or would be in the future.”
“Yes, I realize that.”
“You want to go last before the jury votes.”
“I always do. I thought Lucius Cotta first, then Quintus Hortensius, with me last.”
But the old horror reared back, outraged. “Only three!” he gasped. “Oh no you don’t! Want to grab all the glory, eh? I’m having seven of you. Seven’s my lucky number.”
“The judge in your case,” said Cicero slowly and clearly, “will be Gaius Caesar, and the Glaucian format one actio only—no witnesses are willing to come forward to testify, so there’s no point in two actiones, Gaius Caesar says. Caesar will allow the prosecution two hours, and the defense three hours. But if seven defense advocates are to speak, each of us will hardly get into stride before it’s time to stop!”
“More likely less time will sharpen your presentation,” said Gaius Rabirius adamantly. “That’s the trouble with all you would-be-if-you-could-be fellows! Love to hear the sound of your voice. Two thirds of the words you dribble would be better not uttered at all—and that goes for you too, Marcus Cicero. Waffle, waffle.”
I want to get out of here! thought Cicero wildly. I want to spit in his eye and tell him to go hire Apollo! Why did I ever ever ever put the idea into Caesar’s head by using this awful old mentula as my example?
“Gaius Rabirius, please reconsider!”
“Won’t. Absolutely won’t, so there! I’m going to have Lucius Lucceius and the boy Curio, Aemilius Paullus, Publius Clodius, Lucius Cotta, Quintus Hortensius and you. Like it or lump it, Marcus Cicero, that is how it’s going to be. Seven is my lucky number. Everyone says I’ll go down, but I know I won’t if I have seven on my team.” He snorted with laughter. “Even better if each of you only spoke for one seventh of an hour! Hee hee!”
Cicero got up and left without another word.
*
But seven was indeed his lucky number. It suited Caesar to be the perfect iudex, scrupulous to a fault in accommodating the defense in all agreed Glaucian respects. They got their three hours to speak, Lucceius and young Curio nobly sacrificing enough of their time to permit both Hortensius and Cicero a full half hour each. But on the first day the trial commenced late and then ended early, which left Hortensius and Cicero to conclude Gaius Rabirius’s defense on the ninth day of that awful December, the last day of Titus Labienus’s tribunate of the plebs.
Meetings in the Centuries were at the mercy of the weather, as there was no kind of roofed structure to protect the Quirites from sun or rain or wind. Sun was by far the least tolerable, but in December, summer though the season actually was, a fine day might be bearable. Postponement was at the discretion of the presiding magistrate; some insisted upon holding elections (trials in the Centuries were extremely rare) no matter how hard the rain was pelting down, which may have been why Sulla had transferred the election month from November, more likely to be rainy, to July and the full heat of summer, traditionally dry.
Both days of Gaius Rabirius’s trial turned out to be perfect: a clear sunny sky and a slightly chill breeze. Which ought to have predisposed the jury, four thousand strong, toward charity. Especially since the appellant was such a pitiful object as he stood huddled inside his toga producing a wonderful imitation of a tremulous palsy, both clawlike hands fastened around a support one of the lictors had rigged up for him. But the mood of the jury was ominous from the beginning, and Titus Labienus brilliant as he single-handedly ran his case for the allocated two hours, complete with actors wearing the masks of Saturninus and Quintus Labienus, and his two cousins sitting on full view weeping loudly throughout. There were also many voices whispering through the crush, perpetually reminding the First and Second Classes that their right to trial was at peril, that the conviction of Rabirius would teach men like Cicero and Cato to tread warily in future, and teach bodies like the Senate to stick to finance, wrangling and foreign affairs.
The defense fought hard, but had no trouble in seeing that the jury was not prepared to listen, let alone weep at the sight of poor little old Gaius Rabirius clinging to his perch. When the second day’s proceedings commenced on time, Hortensius and Cicero knew they would have to be at the top of their form if Rabirius was to be exonerated. Unfortunately neither man was. The gout, which plagued a great many of those fish-fancying individuals addicted to the pleasures of the dining couch and the wine flagon, refused to leave Hortensius alone; he had besides been forced to complete his journey from Misenum at a pace not beneficial to the well-being of an exquisitely painful big toe. He spoke for his half hour glued to the same spot and leaning heavily on a stick, which didn’t suit his oratory at all. After which Cicero delivered one of the limpest speeches of his career, constrained by the time limit and his consciousness that some at least of what he said would have to defend his own reputation rather than Rabirius’s—in a carefully engineered way, of course.
Thus most of the day was still in reserve when Caesar cast the lots to see which Century of Juniors in the First Class would take the prerogative and vote first; only the thirty-one rural tribes could participate in this draw, and whichever tribe drew the lot was called upon to vote before the normal routine began. All activity was suspended then until the votes of this Century having praerogativa were counted and the result announced to the waiting Assembly. Tradition had it that whichever way the Juniors of the chosen rural tribe voted would reflect the outcome of the election. Or the trial. Therefore much depended upon which tribe drew the lot and set the precedent. Were it Cicero’s tribe of Cornelia or Cato’s tribe of Papiria, trouble was afoot.
“Clustumina iuniorum!” The Juniors of the tribus Clustumina.
The tribe of Pompey the Great—a good omen, thought Caesar as he left his tribunal to proceed inside the saepta and take his stand at the end of the right-hand bridge connecting voters with the baskets wherein their little wax-coated wooden tablets were deposited.
Nicknamed the Sheepfold because it bore a strong resemblance to the structure farmers used for culling and sorting their sheep, the saepta were a roofless maze of portable wooden palisades and corridors moved to suit the functions of a particular Assembly. The Centuries always voted in the saepta and sometimes the tribes held their elections there too, if the presiding magistrate felt that the Well of the Comitia was too small to handle the number of voters, and disliked using Castor’s temple instead.
And here I approach my fate, thought Caesar soberly as he drew near the entrance of the odd-looking compound; the verdict will go whichever way the Clustumina Juniors poll, I know it in my very bones. LIBERO for acqui
ttal, DAMNO for conviction. DAMNO, it must be DAMNO!
At which portentous moment he encountered Crassus lingering alongside the entrance looking less impassive than usual. Good! If this business did not move the immovable Crassus, then it would surely fail in its purpose. But he was moved, clearly moved.
“One day,” said Crassus as Caesar paused, “I expect some yokel shepherd with a dye-stick in his hand to daub a spot of vermilion on my toga and tell me I can’t go in to vote a second time when I try. They mark sheep, why not Romans?’’
“Is that what you were just thinking?”
A tiny spasm passed across the Crassus face, an indication of surprise. “Yes. But then I decided marking us wasn’t Roman.”
“You’re quite right,” said Caesar, needing to exert every ounce of will he owned in order not to laugh, “though it might prevent the tribes from trotting through several times, especially those rascally urbanites from Esquilina and Suburana.”
“What difference does it make?” asked Crassus, bored. “Sheep, Caesar, sheep. Voters are sheep. Baaaa!”
Caesar rushed inside still dying to laugh; that would teach him to believe men—even close friends like Crassus—appreciated the solemnity of this occasion!
The verdict of the Clustumina Juniors was DAMNO, and tradition indicated they were right as two by two the Centuries filed through the palisaded corridors, up over the two bridges, to deposit tablets bearing the letter D. Caesar’s associate in the scrutineering was his custos, Metellus Celer; when both men were sure that the eventual verdict would indeed be DAMNO, Celer relinquished his bridge to Cosconius and left.
There followed a dangerously long wait—had Celer forgotten his mirror, had the sun gone behind a cloud, was his accomplice on the Janiculan Hill dozing? Come on, Celer, hurry up!
“ARM! ARM! INVADERS ARE UPON US! ARM! ARM! INVADERS ARE UPON US! ARM! ARM!”
Barely in the nick of time.
Thus ended the trial and appeal of old Gaius Rabirius, in a mad scramble of fleeing voters back behind the safety of the Servian Walls, there to arm and disperse in military Centuries to the places where the duty roster put them.
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