Lustrum

by Robert Harris

  This was the first occasion on which Cicero heard of any conspiracy against him, and to begin with he was unsure how to respond. Was it just some piece of drunken, bestial debauchery, or was it to be taken as a serious threat? As Hybrida started snoring, Cicero gave me a look of infinite revulsion and passed the remainder of the journey in silence with his arms folded, a brooding expression on his face. As for Hybrida, he slept all the way to Rome, so deeply that when we reached his house he had to be lifted out of the carriage by the lictors and laid out in the vestibule. His slaves seemed entirely used to receiving their master in this fashion, and as we left, one was tipping a jug of water over the consul's head.

  Quintus and Atticus were waiting when we arrived home, and Cicero quickly told them what he had heard from Hybrida. Quintus was all for making the story public at once, but Cicero was not convinced. 'And then what?' he asked.

  'The law should be allowed to take its course. The perpetrators must be publicly accused, prosecuted, disgraced and exiled.'

  'No,' said Cicero. 'A prosecution would stand no chance of success. First, who would be mad enough to bring one? And if, by a miracle, some brave and foolhardy soul were willing to take on Catilina, where would he find the evidence for a conviction? Hybrida will refuse to be a witness, even with a promise of immunity – you may be sure of that. He'll simply deny the whole thing ever happened, and break off his alliance with me. And the corpse has gone, remember? Indeed there are witnesses to the fact that I've already made a speech assuring the people there has been no ritual killing!'

  'So we do nothing?'

  'No, we watch, and we wait. We need to get a spy in Catilina's camp. He won't trust Hybrida any more.'

  'We should also take extra precautions,' said Atticus. 'How long do you have the lictors?'

  'Until the end of January, when Hybrida starts his term as president of the senate. They come back to me again in March.'

  'I suggest we ask for volunteers from the Order of Knights to protect you in public while they're not around.'

  'A private bodyguard? People will say I'm putting on airs. It will have to be done discreetly.'

  'It will be, don't worry. I'll arrange it.'

  So it was agreed, and in the meantime Cicero set about trying to find an agent who might gain the confidence of Catilina, and who could then report back in secret on what he was up to. He first broached the matter a couple of days later with young Rufus. He summoned him to the house and began by apologising for his rudeness after dinner. 'You must understand, my dear Rufus,' he explained, walking him around the atrium with his arm across his shoulders, 'that it is one of the failings of the old always to see the young for what they were rather than for what they have become. I treated you as that tearaway who came into my household as a boy three years ago, whereas I now realise you are a man of nearly twenty, making his way in the world and deserving of greater respect. I am truly sorry for any offence, and hope none has been taken.'

  'The fault was mine,' responded Rufus. 'I won't pretend I agree with your policies. But my love and respect for you is unshaken, and I won't allow myself to think ill of you again.'

  'Good lad.' Cicero pinched his cheek. 'Did you hear that, Tiro? He loves me! So you wouldn't want to kill me?'

  'Kill you? Of course not! Whatever made you think I would?'

  'Others who share your views have talked of killing me – Catilina to name but one,' and he described to Rufus the killing of Hybrida's slave and the terrible oath Catilina had made his confederates swear.

  'Are you certain?' asked Rufus. 'I've never heard him mention such a thing.'

  'Well, he has undoubtedly spoken of his desire to murder me – Hybrida assures me of it – and if ever he does again, I'd like to think you'd give me warning.'

  'Oh, I see,' said Rufus, looking at Cicero's hand on his shoulder. 'That's why you've brought me up here – to ask me to be your spy.'

  'Not a spy, a loyal citizen. Or has our republic sunk to such a level that killing a consul comes second to friendship?'

  'I'd neither kill a consul nor betray a friend,' replied Rufus, detaching himself from Cicero's embrace, 'which is why I'm glad that the shadow over our friendship has been lifted.'

  'An excellent lawyer's answer. I taught you better than I realised.'

  After he had gone, Cicero said thoughtfully, 'That young man is on his way to repeat every word I've just said to Catilina' – an observation that may well have been true, for certainly from that day onwards Rufus kept clear of Cicero but was often to be seen in Catilina's company. It was an ill-assorted gang he had joined: high-spirited young bloods like Cornelius Cethegus, out for a fight; ageing and dissolute noblemen like Marcus Laeca and Autronius Paetus, whose public careers had been frustrated by their private vices; mutinous ex-soldiers led by rabble-rousers like Caius Manlius, who had been a centurion under Sulla. What bound them together was loyalty to Catilina – who could be quite charming when he was not trying to kill you – and a desire to see the existing state of affairs in Rome smashed to pieces. Twice when Cicero had to address public assemblies, as part of his opposition to Rullus's bill, they set up a constant racket of jeers and whistles, and I was glad that Atticus had made arrangements to protect him, especially as the Rabirius affair was now catching fire.

  Rullus's bill, Rabirius's prosecution, Catilina's death threat – you must remember that Cicero was having to contend with all these three at once, as well as coping with the general business of running the senate. Historians in my opinion often overlook this aspect of politics. Problems do not queue up outside a statesman's door, waiting to be solved in an orderly fashion, chapter by chapter, as the books would have us believe; instead they crowd in en masse, demanding attention. Hortensius, for example, arrived to discuss tactics for the defence of Rabirius only a few hours after Cicero had been howled down at the public assembly on Rullus's bill. And there was a further consequence of this overwork. Because Cicero was so preoccupied, Hortensius, who had little else to do, had effectively taken control of the case. Settling himself in Cicero's study and looking very pleased with himself, he announced that the matter was solved.

  'Solved?' repeated Cicero. 'How?'

  Hortensius smiled. He had employed a team of scribes, he said, to gather evidence, and they had turned up the intriguing fact that a ruffian named Scaeva, the slave of a senator, Q. Croton, had been given his freedom immediately after Saturninus's murder. The scribes had enquired further in the state archives. According to Scaeva's papers of manumission, he was the one who had 'struck the fatal blow' that killed Saturninus, and for this 'patriotic act' had been rewarded with his liberty by the senate. Both Scaeva and Croton were long since dead, but Catulus, once his memory had been jogged, claimed to remember the incident well enough, and had sworn an affidavit that after Saturninus had been stoned unconscious, he had seen Scaeva climb down to the floor of the senate house and finish him off with a knife.

  'And that,' said Hortensius in conclusion, passing Catulus's affidavit to Cicero, 'I think you will agree, destroys Labienus's case against our client, and with a bit of luck will bring this wretched business to a swift conclusion.' He sat back in his chair and looked about him with an air of great satisfaction. 'Don't tell me you disagree?' he added, noticing Cicero's frown.

  'In principle of course you are right. But I wonder in practice whether this will help us much.'

  'Of course it will! Labienus has no case left. Even Caesar will have to concede that. Really, Cicero,' he said with a smile and the tiniest wag of a manicured finger, 'I could almost believe you're jealous.'

  Cicero remained unconvinced. 'Well, we shall see,' he remarked to me after this conference. 'But I fear Hortensius has no idea of the forces ranged against us. He still imagines Caesar to be just another ambitious young senator on the make. He has not yet glimpsed his depths.'

  Sure enough, on the very day Hortensius submitted his evidence to Caesar's special court, Caesar and his fellow judge – his elder cousin
– without even hearing any witnesses, pronounced Rabirius guilty, and sentenced him to death by crucifixion. The news spread through Rome's cramped streets like a firestorm, and it was a very different Hortensius who appeared in Cicero's study the following morning.

  'The man is a monster! A complete and utter swine!'

  'And how has our unfortunate client reacted?'

  'He doesn't yet know what's happened. It seemed kinder not to tell him.'

  'So now what do we do?'

  'We have no alternative. We appeal.'

  Hortensius duly lodged an immediate appeal with the urban praetor, Lentulus Sura, who in turn referred the question to an assembly of the people, summoned for the following week on the Field of Mars. This was ideal terrain from the prosecution's point of view: not a court with a respectable jury, but a great swirling multitude of citizens. To enable them all to vote on Rabirius's fate, the entire proceedings would have to be crammed into one short winter's day. And as if that wasn't enough, Labienus was also able to use his powers as tribune to stipulate that no defence speech should last for longer than half an hour. On hearing of this restriction, Cicero observed, 'Hortensius needs half an hour merely to clear his throat!' and as the date of the hearing drew closer, he and his fellow counsel bickered more frequently. Hortensius saw the matter in purely legal terms. The main thrust of his speech, he declared, would be to establish that the real killer of Saturninus was Scaeva. Cicero disagreed, seeing the trial as wholly political. 'This isn't a court,' he reminded Hortensius. 'This is the mob. Do you seriously imagine, in all the noise and excitement, with thousands of people milling about, that anybody is going to care a fig that the actual fatal blow was struck by some wretched slave who's been dead for years?'

  'What line would you take, then?'

  'I think we must concede at the outset that Rabirius was the killer, and claim that the action was legally sanctioned.'

  Hortensius threw up his hands. 'Really, Cicero, I know you've a reputation as a tricky fellow and all that, but now you're simply being perverse.'

  'And I'm afraid you spend too much time on the Bay of Naples talking to your fish. You no longer know this city as I do.'

  Since they were unable to reach an agreement, it was decided that Hortensius would speak first and Cicero last, and each would argue as he pleased. I was glad that Rabirius was too feeble-minded to grasp what was going on, because otherwise he would have been in despair, especially as Rome was anticipating his trial as if it were a circus. The cross on the Field of Mars had become a regular meeting place and was festooned with placards demanding justice, land and bread. Labienus also got hold of a bust of Saturninus and set it up on the rostra, garlanded with laurel. It did not help that Rabirius had a reputation as a vicious old skinflint; even his adopted son was a moneylender. Cicero was in no doubt that the verdict would go against him, and decided at least to try to save his life. He therefore laid an emergency resolution before the senate reducing the penalty for perduellio from crucifixion to exile. Thanks to Hybrida's support, this was narrowly passed, despite angry opposition from Caesar and the tribunes. Metellus Celer went out of the city late that night with a party of slaves and tore down the cross, smashed it up and burned it.

  This, then, was how matters stood on the morning of the trial. Even as Cicero was checking his speech and dressing to go down to the Field of Mars, Quintus turned up in his chamber and urged his brother to withdraw as defence counsel. He had done all he could, argued Quintus, and would only suffer an unnecessary loss of prestige when Rabirius was found guilty. It might also be physically dangerous for him to confront the populists outside the city walls. I could see that Cicero was tempted by these arguments. But not the least of the reasons why I loved him, despite his faults, was that he possessed that most attractive form of courage: the bravery of a nervous man. After all, any rash fool can be a hero if he sets no value on his life, or hasn't the wit to appreciate danger. But to understand the risks, perhaps even to flinch at first, but then to summon the strength to face them down – that in my opinion is the most commendable form of valour, and that was what Cicero displayed that day.

  Labienus was already in place on the platform when we reached the Field of Mars, alongside his precious stage prop, the bust of Saturninus. He was an ambitious soldier, one of Pompey's fellow countrymen from Picenum, and he affected to copy the great general in all things – his girth, his swaggering gait, even his hair, which he wore swept back in a Pompeian wave. When he saw Cicero and his lictors approaching, he put his fingers in his mouth and let out a derisive whistle, and this was taken up by the crowd, which must have numbered about ten thousand. It was an intimidating noise, and it intensified as Hortensius appeared leading Rabirius by the hand. The old fellow did not look frightened so much as bewildered by the racket and the numbers pressing forward to get a glimpse of him. I was pushed and shoved as I struggled to stay close to Cicero. I noticed a line of legionaries, their helmets and breastplates glinting in the bright January light, and behind them, sitting in a stand on a row of seats reserved for distinguished spectators, the military commanders Quintus Metellus, conqueror of Crete, and Licinius Lucullus, Pompey's predecessor in the East. Cicero made a face at me when he saw them, for he had promised both aristocratic generals triumphs in return for their support at election time, and had so far done nothing about it.

  'It must be a crisis,' Cicero whispered to me, 'if Lucullus has left his palace on the Bay of Naples to mingle with the common herd!'

  He clambered up the ladder on to the platform, along with Hortensius, and finally Rabirius, who had such difficulty mounting the rungs his advocates finally had to reach down and haul him up. All three glistened with the spittle that had been showered on them. Hortensius looked especially appalled, for obviously he had not realised how unpopular the senate had become during that hard winter. The orators sat down on their bench, with Rabirius between them. A trumpet sounded, and across the river the red flag was hoisted over the hill of Janiculum to signal that the city was in no peril of assault and the assembly could begin.

  As the presiding magistrate, Labienus both controlled proceedings and acted as prosecutor, and this gave him a tremendous advantage. A bully by nature, he elected to speak first, and was soon shouting abuse at Rabirius, who sank lower and lower in his seat. Labienus did not bother to summon witnesses. He did not need to: he had the votes already. He finished with a stern peroration about the arrogance of the senate and the greed of the small clique that controlled it, and the necessity to make a harsh example of Rabirius, so that never in the future would any consul dare to imagine he could sanction the murder of a fellow citizen and hope to escape unpunished. The crowd roared in agreement. 'I realised then,' Cicero confided in me afterwards, 'with the force of a revelation, that the true target of this lynch mob of Caesar's was not Rabirius at all, but me, as consul, and that somehow I had to regain control of the situation before my authority to deal with the likes of Catilina was destroyed entirely.'

  Hortensius went next, and did his best, but those great orotund purple passages for which he was so famous belonged to another setting – and, in truth, another era. He was past fifty, had more or less retired, was out of practice – and it showed. Some in the audience near the platform actually began to talk over him, and I was close enough to see the panic in his face as Hortensius gradually realised that he – the great Hortensius, the Dancing Master, the King of the Law Courts – was actually losing his audience! The more frantically he flung out his arms and patrolled the platform and swivelled his noble head, the more risible he seemed. Nobody was interested in his arguments. I could not hear all of what he said, as the din was tremendous, with thousands of citizens milling around and chatting to one another while they waited to vote. He broke off, sweating despite the cold, and wiped his face with his handkerchief, then called his witnesses, first Catulus and next Isauricus. Each came up to the platform and was heard respectfully. But the moment Hortensius resumed his speech, t
he racket of conversation started up again. By then he could have combined the tongue of Demosthenes with the wit of Plautus – it would not have made a difference. Cicero stared straight ahead into the din, white-faced, immobile, as if chiselled out of marble.

  At length Hortensius sat down and it was Cicero's turn to speak. Labienus called on him to address the assembly, but such was the volume of noise he did not rise at first. Instead he examined his toga carefully, and brushed away a few invisible specks. The hubbub continued. He checked his fingernails. He folded his arms. He looked around him. He waited. It went on a long time. And amazingly a kind of sullen, respectful silence did eventually fall over the Field of Mars. Only then did Cicero nod, as if in approval, and slowly get to his feet.

  'Although it is not my habit, fellow citizens,' he said, 'to begin a speech by explaining why I am appearing on behalf of a particular individual, nonetheless in defending the life, the honour and the fortunes of Gaius Rabirius, I consider it my duty to lay before you an explanation. For this trial is not really about Rabirius – old, infirm and friendless as he is. This trial, gentlemen, is nothing less than an attempt to ensure that from now on there should be no central authority in the state, no concerted action of good citizens against the frenzy and audacity of wicked men, no refuge for the republic in emergencies, and no security for its welfare. Since this is so,' he continued, his voice becoming louder, his hands and his gaze rising slowly to the heavens, 'I beg of most high and mighty Jupiter and all the other immortal gods and goddesses to grant me their grace and favour, and I pray that by their will this day that has dawned may see the salvation of my client and the rescue of the constitution!'

  Cicero used to say that the bigger a crowd the more stupid it is, and that a useful trick with an immense multitude is always to call on the supernatural. His words carried like a rolling drum across the hushed plain. There was still some chatter at the periphery, but it was too far away to drown him out.