Caesar's Women (62 page)

“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 acquittal, 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.

But Catilina and his army never came.

If Cicero plodded rather than ran back to the Palatine, he had every excuse. Hortensius had departed the moment his speech was done, carried moaning to his litter, but pride forbade the less secure and far less wellborn Cicero that luxury. Face sternly composed, he waited for his Century to vote, his tablet firmly marked with an L for LIBERO—not too many Ls among the voters on this terrible day! Not even in his own Century could he persuade its members to vote for acquittal. And was forced, face sternly composed, to witness the opinion of the men of the First Class: that thirty-seven years were not long enough to prevent damnation.

The clarion call to arms had burst upon him as a miracle, though like everyone else he half-expected Catilina to bypass the armies in the field against him, swoop on Rome. Despite which, he plodded. Death seemed suddenly preferable to the fate he now understood Caesar had in store for him. One day when Caesar or some tribune of the plebs minion deemed the time right, Marcus Tullius Cicero would stand where Gaius Rabirius stood, accused of treason; the most he could hope for was that it would be maiestas, not perduellio. Exile and the confiscation of all his property, the removal of his name from the roll of Roman citizens, his son and daughter branded as of a tarnished family. He had lost more than a battle; he had lost the war. He was Carbo, not Sulla.

But, he said to himself as finally he climbed those endless steps up to the Palatine, I must never admit it. I must never allow Caesar or anyone else to believe that I am a broken man. I saved my country, and I will maintain that until I die! Life goes on. I will behave as if nothing whatsoever threatens me, even in my mind.

Thus he greeted Catulus in the Forum the next day cheerfully; they were there to see the first performance of the new tribunes of the plebs. “I thank all the Gods for Celer!” he said, smiling.

“I wonder,” said Catulus, “whether Celer lowered the red flag on his own initiative, or whether Caesar ordered it?”

“Caesar ordered it?” asked Cicero blankly.

“Grow up, Cicero! It can't have been any part of Caesar's intentions to convict Rabirius, that would have spoiled a sweet victory.” Face pinched and drawn, Catulus looked very ill and very old. “I am so terribly afraid! He's like Ulysses, his life strand is so strong that it frays all those it rubs against. I am losing my auctoritas, and when it's finally gone I'll have nowhere to go except into death.”

“Rubbish!” Cicero exclaimed warmly.

“Not rubbish, just unpalatable fact. You know, I think I could forgive the man if only he wasn't so sure of himself, so arrogant, so insufferably confident! My father was a full Caesar, and there are echoes of him in this one. But only echoes.” He shivered. “This one has a far better mind, and no brakes. No brakes at all. I am afraid.”

“A pity Cato won't be here today,” said Cicero to change the subject. “Metellus Nepos will have no competition on the rostra. Odd how those brothers have suddenly espoused Popularist ideas.”

“Blame Pompeius Magnus,” said Catulus contemptuously.

As he had cherished a soft spot for Pompey ever since their joint service under Pompey Strabo during the Italian War, Cicero might have taken up cudgels in the absent conqueror's defense; instead, he gasped in shock. “Look!”

Catulus turned to see Marcus Porcius Cato marching across the open space between the Pool of Curtius and the Well of the Comitia, wearing a tunic beneath his toga. Everyone who had noticed him was gaping, and not because of the tunic. From the top of his brow to where his neck merged into his shoulders, there ran on right and left sides ragged crimson stripes, puckered and oozing.

“Jupiter!” squawked Cicero.

“Oh, how I love him!” cried Catulus, almost running to meet Cato, and taking his right hand. “Cato, Cato, why did you come?”

“Because I am a tribune of the plebs and today is the first day of my term,” said Cato in his normal stentorian tones.

“But your face!” Cicero protested.

“Faces mend, wrong acts don't. Were I not on the rostra to contend with Nepos, he'd run riot.” And to the sound of applause he ascended the rostra to take his place with the other nine men about to enter office. Not that he acknowledged the acclamation; he was too busy glaring at Metellus Nepos. Pompey's man. Scum!

Because the whole People (patricians as well as plebeians) did not elect the tribunes of the plebs and because they served only the interests of the plebeian part, meetings of the Plebeian Assembly were not “official” in the same way as meetings of the Popular or the Centuriate Assembly. Therefore they began and ended with scant ceremony; the auspices were not taken, nor the ritual prayers said. These omissions added considerably to the popularity of the Plebeian Assembly. Things got off to a rousing start, no boring litanies and clucking augurs to put up with.

Today's convocation of the Plebeian Assembly was extremely well attended, between the festering sore of executions without trial and the balm of knowing sparks were going to fly. The old tribunes of the plebs exited quite gracefully, Labienus and Rullus getting all the cheers. After which the meeting proper began.