Caesar's Women (61 page)

“Precisely,” said Cicero, chin up.

From the floor of the Comitia well the rostra was an imposing edifice rising some ten feet above the level of the Forum. Its top was large enough to accommodate forty standing men, and this morning the space was occupied by Cicero and his twelve lictors, by the urban praetor Metellus Celer and his six lictors, by the praetors Otho and Cosconius and their twelve-lictors, and by three tribunes of the plebs—Rullus, Ampius and one man from the Catulus faction, Lucius Caecilius Rufus.

One of those cold winds confined to the Forum was blowing, which might have accounted for the fact that Cicero looked quite small huddled inside the massive folds of his purple-bordered toga; though he was held the greatest orator Rome had ever produced, the rostra didn't suit his style nearly as well as the more intimate theaters of Senate chamber and court, and he was miserably aware of it. The florid and exhibitionistic style of Hortensius suited the rostra far better, but Cicero could not be comfortable in widening his performance to a Hortensian scale. Nor was there time to orate properly. He would just have to battle on.

“Praetor urbanus,” cried Rullus to Metellus Celer, “do you agree with the senior consul's interpretation of the Senatus Consultum Ultimum at present in force to deal with revolt in Etruria and conspiracy in Rome?”

“No, tribune, I do not,” said Celer with weighty conviction.

“Why?”

“I cannot agree with anything that prevents a tribune of the plebs from exercising the rights given to him by the Roman Plebs!”

When Celer said this, Caesar's supporters roared approval.

“Then, praetor urbanus,” Rullus went on, “is it your opinion that the Senatus Consultum Ultimum at present in force cannot forbid a tribunician veto in this Assembly on this morning?”

“Yes, that is my opinion!” Celer cried.

As the crowd's restlessness increased, Otho came closer to Rullus and Metellus Celer. “It's Marcus Cicero who is right!” he shouted. “Marcus Cicero is the greatest lawyer of our day!''

“Marcus Cicero is a turd!” someone called.

“Dictator Turd!” called someone else. “Dictator Turd!”

“Cicero's a tur-urd! Cicero's a tur-urd! Cicero's a tur-urd!”

“Order! I will have order!” yelled Cicero, beginning to be afraid of the crowd.

“Cicero's a tur-urd, Cicero's a tur-urd, Dic-a-tator Tur-urd!”

“Order! Order!”

“Order,” cried Rullus, “will be restored when the tribunes of the plebs are allowed to exercise their rights without interference from the senior consul!” He walked to the edge of the rostra and looked down into the well. “Quirites, I hereby propose that we enact a law to investigate the nature of the Senatus Consultum Ultimum our senior consul has used to such telling effect for the last few days! Men have died because of it! Now we are told that tribunes of the plebs are not allowed to veto because of it! Now we are told that tribunes of the plebs are once again the ciphers they were under Sulla's constitution! Is today's debacle the prelude to another Sulla in the person of this spouter and touter of the Senatus Consultum Ultimum? He flourishes it like a magic wand! Whoosh! and impediments vanish into nothing! Bring in a Senatus Consultum Ultimum—chain and gag the men you haven't done to death—end the right of Romans to assemble in their tribes to enact laws or veto them—and forbid the trial process entirely! Five men have died without a trial, another man is on trial at the Campus Martius right now, and our Dictator Turd the senior consul is using his putrefied Senatus Consultum Ultimum to subvert justice and turn all of us into slaves! We rule the world, but Dictator Turd is out to rule us! It is my right to exercise the veto I was given by a true congress of Roman men, but Dictator Turd says I can't!” He swung round on Cicero viciously. “What's your next move, Dictator Turd? Am I to be sent to the Tullianum to have my neck squashed to pulp without a trial? Without a trial, without a trial, without a trial, WITHOUT A TRIAL!”

Someone in the Comitia well took the chant up, and before Cicero's appalled eyes even the Catulus faction joined in: “Without a trial! Without a trial! Without a trial!'' over and over and over.

Yet there was no violence. Owning volatile tempers, Gaius Piso and Ahenobarbus ought by rights to have assaulted someone by now, but instead they stood transfixed. Quintus Lutatius Catulus looked at them and at Bibulus in sick horror, finally understanding the full extent of opposition to the execution of the conspirators. Hardly realizing that he did so, he put his right arm up to Cicero on the rostra in a mute command to cease, to back down immediately.

Cicero stepped forward so quickly he almost tripped, hands held with palms out to implore calm and quiet.

When the noise died enough for him to be heard, he visibly licked his lips and swallowed. “Praetor urbanus,” he cried, “I accede to your superior position as interpreter of law! Let your opinion be adopted! The Senatus Consultum Ultimum does not extend to the tribunician right to veto in a matter having nothing to do with revolt in Etruria or conspiracy in Rome!”

Though as long as he lived he would never cease to fight, in that moment Cicero knew he had lost.

Numbed and perished, he accepted the proposal Caesar had instructed Rullus to put forward, not sure why he was apparently being let off so lightly. Rullus even agreed to the waiving of preliminary discussions and the seventeen-day waiting period stipulated by the lex Caecilia Didia! But couldn't the idiots in the crowd see that if the Senatus Consultum Ultimum could not forbid the tribunician veto, it also could not waive contiones or the waiting period of the Didian Law? Oh yes, of course the hand of Caesar was in it—why else was Caesar to be the judge at Rabirius's appeal? But what exactly was Caesar after?

“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 much 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?”