A Point of Law

13

We left my house in the pearly light of earliest dawn. When I stepped from my gate onto the street, it was already packed with my supporters. The occasion was too serious and solemn for a cheer, but I heard a collective murmur of approbation from them.

As soon as I was in the street, I was surrounded by soldiers. This we had discussed the night before, and as much as I hated to look like I went in fear of my fellow citizens, I could not reasonably object to this precaution. There was a very real possibility that the Marcelli, or Octavia, might decide to spare themselves embarrassment by hiring someone to slip a dagger between my ribs before I could reach the trial site.

Hermes accompanied me, positioned to my left rear, the most likely approach for a right-handed assailant. Before me stretched a wedge of soldiers. At the tip of the wedge were young Lucius Burrus and his father. Old Burrus had chosen to wear his military decorations, of which he had earned a cartload: silver bracelets, torques, phalerae, even a civic crown. Armed soldiers could not enter the City, but I had the toughest-looking pack of unarmed soldiers south of the Padus. Stretching far behind was a great mob of my clients, my neighbors, and other supporters.

“Well,” I said, “barring rooftop archers, I should make it to the Forum alive.”

“Archers,” muttered a nearby soldier. “I knew we should’ve brought shields.”

“Let’s be off,” I said.

The mass of humanity began its stately pace down the narrow street, toward the Clivus Suburanus, which would take us to the Forum. Julia and the household staff would follow as soon as the street was halfway cleared.

I wore my best toga, not my Candida. It might look presumptuous, to show up at a trial wearing a chalked-up toga. Besides, proper rhetorical form called for a lot of broad gesticulation, and that could raise great clouds of chalk dust, an undignified sight. I was impeccably barbered and had spent the previous hour in breathing exercises, practicing my gestures, and gargling hot, vinegared water, things I hadn’t done in years. For once I wasn’t carrying weapons. It might be awkward if my dagger or caestus should clatter to the podium at the peak of a dramatic gesture. Instead, Hermes carried them for me.

When we reached the Forum, the crowd was already gathering. The trial was to be held in the old Forum’s largest open space, at the western end between the Basilica Aemilia and the Basilica Sempronia. There the magistrate’s platform, recently restored and adorned by Caesar, stood ready for a trial before the comitia tributa. This meant that, instead of the center of the platform being dominated by a praetor in his curule chair, we would be facing the Tribunes of the People, who by custom would be seated on a single bench. Since none of the presiding officials held imperium, there were no lictors on the podium. Behind the platform, on the Basilica Aemilia side, towered the wooden bleachers erected for the three hundred equites who would be my jury.

The Metelli were already gathering by the western end of the podium: my father, Creticus, Nepos, and Metellus Scipio, accompanied by their huge rabble of supporters, along with many friends and colleagues, some of them personally devoted to the Metelli, others merely opposed to the same people. Cato was there, and I welcomed his support as heartily as I disliked him personally.

To the other side, I saw a great pack forming, many of them old Clodians hoping to witness my downfall, some of them the men I had seen with Marcus Fulvius. I was curious to see whether any of the Marcelli would make an appearance among them, but I saw none of them. Perhaps it was too early. Or perhaps they were having second thoughts about the whole affair.

Father looked disgusted when I walked up, surrounded by my entourage.

“Did you have to show up like an invading army?” he spat.

“No choice. They’ve appointed themselves my bodyguard.” I scanned the bleachers, where the jury, wearing their narrow-striped tunics, were only beginning to take their places. The podium was as yet deserted. “Is there someplace where we can discuss this business before the proceedings begin?”

“It’s a little late for discussion,” Father said, “but if you’ve anything to tell us, just have your little army give us some space.”

So the soldiers formed a ring around us and held the crowd back. Scipio gave me a quick rundown of the day’s procedure.

“Cato will lead off. He’s not a member of the family and is known to oppose us on many policies, so he’ll be respected as an impartial speaker. He’ll challenge the constitutionality of this court so we’ll have groundwork laid for a retrial if you should be convicted. That will mean you can’t stand for election tomorrow, but there will be other years. Then he’ll laud your good character and defame the late Marcus Fulvius. Then he’ll introduce the speakers, all of them prominent men, who will shout what a wonderful person you are.

“It will then be the other side’s turn to bring on the accusations against you.”

“Who is to prosecute?” I asked.

“Manilius himself,” said Creticus.

“What? A serving tribune? Is that legal?” This I had not anticipated.

“Apparently there is no law that specifically forbids such a thing,” Cato told me. “Tribunes are usually too busy for such activities, but this is Manilius’s last day in office, and the exposure will benefit his campaign for the aedileship.”

“What did you want to tell us?” Father said. “Time is short.”

So I began a precise description of my findings. Before I was halfway through, their fallen faces told me that this was not going down well. Father cut me off with a short, savage gesture.

“Cease this nonsense! A secret code? A Greek mathematician, and a woman at that? Are you mad?”

“A conspiracy among three of the most prominent men of the state?” Scipio cried, going scarlet. “One of them a sitting consul! Another almost certain to be elected consul for next year?”

“And,” Nepos said pitilessly, “yet another plot on behalf of a twelve-year-old boy? And concocted by a Julian woman?” He turned to Father. “Cut-nose, maybe we’d be best advised to get up there, declare him insane, and hustle him out of Rome as quickly as possible.”

“Nonsense,” Cato said, calmly for once. “I’ve seen him like this before. He’ll get over it. Decius, forget all this drivel, even if it’s true. You have no evidence, no witnesses. For legal purposes, none of it happened. We’ll do this the old-fashioned way, the way our ancestors did it.” This, for Cato, being the ultimate encomium for anything at all.

Pompey pushed his way through to us, the soldiers parting before him by sheer habit.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. “As if that absurd demonstration yesterday wasn’t enough, now I have two packs of thugs elbowing each other in the Forum!”

“Two?” I said. Then, “Oh, I suppose Curio is here. Don’t worry about these soldiers, Proconsul. They’ll disperse as soon as the trial is over. Curio’s lot you are going to have to contend with for a while, I fear. When I have time a little later I’ll tell you all about Pisistratus.”

“Pisistratus! The tyrant of Athens? Cut-Nose, is your son completely crazy?”

“We’ve been discussing that very possibility, Proconsul, but Cato is of the opinion that it’s a passing phase. I myself am not so sure.”

Pompey shrugged. “Well, being mad never stopped anyone from being elected praetor before this. But I’ll not have a great show of force here in the Forum on the day before the election.”

“We’re Metelli,” said Creticus, “not Claudians or Antonii or any other sort of congenital criminals. We’ll do this the proper way and abide peacefully by the decision of the court.”

“See you do. I’m going to go talk with Curio now, and see if I can get him to disperse his gang. Pisistratus, indeed!” He bustled off, and I could understand his anger. For a year his proudest boast had been that he had cleared Rome of the criminal-political gangs that had plagued us for generations. Now it looked as if his good work was being undone.

The bleachers were now almost full, my jury, each man wearing the narrow purple stripe and gold ring of his equestrian status, taking his place. They were a prosperous-looking lot, wealthy and usually self-made. Such men could be counted on to dislike an aristocrat like me. On the other hand, they had little love for the Clodian rabble. We were even there.

The Tribunes of the People were seating themselves, arranging their plain togas, which lacked the purple border despite their great power. Their tunics likewise lacked the senatorial stripe, although they could attend Senate meetings and interpose their veto there. They would enter the Senate as full members in the following year.

As the tribunes sat I identified them and almost reflexively rated each according to the political obsession of the day. From the left: Caelius, pro-Caesar; Vinicius, pro-Caesar; Vibius Pansa, pro-Caesar; Cornelius, pro-Caesar; Nonius, pro-Caesar; Minucius, anti-Caesar; Didius, anti-Caesar; Antistius, anti-Caesar; Valerius, anti-Caesar and, last of all on the right end of the bench, that unknown quantity, Publius Manilius.

When all were present, Manilius stood and gestured for silence. Gradually, the babble of the multitude was stilled.

“Citizens!” he began. “I, Tribune of the People, Publius Manilius Scrofa, declare these proceedings to be open. In the contio of the Plebeian Order, this matter was deemed worthy of trial before the comitia tribute and thus we shall proceed.

“The accused”-here he gestured in my direction-“is Decius Caecilius Metellus, a senator of Rome, charged with the murder of Marcus Fulvius, citizen of Rome, formerly resident in Baiae, at the time of his death dwelling in the Temple of Tellus district. Is the defense ready to present opening arguments?”

“We are!” Father shouted.

“Then ascend the podium and address the people of Rome.”

We climbed the steps in stately fashion; a gaggle of Metelli, along with Cato and a number of prominent men, some of them exconsuls, to attest to my character.

“Who speaks for you?” Manilius demanded.

Cato stepped forward. “I am Senator Marcus Porcius Cato, a friend of the accused, and I will prove his innocence of these base charges.”

“Proceed,” said Manilius. He pointed to the slave who stood by the old bronze water clock. The man pulled out its stopper and water began to drain into a large glass beaker that was graduated to reveal the passing minutes. Opening arguments would be over as soon as the beaker was full. A good Roman lawyer could time his argument to the syllable.

“First,” Cato began, “I must protest this wretched, unconstitutional trial. The contio that called for it was informal, and there were no sacrifices. Auguries were not taken. The gods of the state were not called upon to witness, and so it is invalid. The comitia tributa has no power to try a capital case, and I assure everyone here that that is just what they will try to make of it!” Cato had an unpleasant voice, but he also had a masterful command of a sort of old-fashioned, almost sacerdotal Latin that was extremely impressive in events of this nature. He completely eschewed the florid, embroidered rhetoric practiced by Hortalus.

Then Cato launched into his oration. He spoke of the glory of my family, naming its many censors, consuls, and praetors, and of the battles won by Metellan generals. He spoke of my early career, of my service in the rebellion of Sertorius, in the suppression of the Catilinarian conspiracy, in the war in Gaul, most recently in my little campaign that very year against an outbreak of piracy near Cyprus.

He then launched into my political career, citing my many investigations against criminals and criminal activities, my quaestorship, during which I had infiltrated Catilina’s ranks, my unprecedented double aedileship, when I had not only cleaned up the streets and sewers, but had vigorously prosecuted the crooked building contractors whose shoddy practices had cost so many citizens lives (nobody counted the dead slaves and foreigners). He cited the games I had celebrated, including the funeral games for Metellus Celer, at which I had presented a munera where an uncommon number of famous champions had come out of retirement to fight. Milo had been responsible for this, but I got the credit. There were murmurs of appreciation from the crowd. Everybody had loved those games.

When the beaker was full, Cato stopped and my character witnesses came forward. Some swore before all the gods that I was as virtuous a Roman as any since Numa Pompilius. All swore that I was incorruptible (actually, few people had considered me worth corrupting). All extolled the worthiness of my ancestors. Those who had been praetors told of important investigations I had undertaken for them. At one time I had been something of a professional iudex.

Then Cato resumed his oration. The water clock was reset for this phase, always the most enjoyable part of a trial: denunciation of the other side.

“Who,” cried Cato, “was this Marcus Fulvius? He was a nobody from nowhere. He was a resident, not of Rome, but of Baiae, that sordid cesspool of every sort of luxury, vice, and perversion! Can there be any doubt that Marcus Fulvius was himself the very embodiment of all that is vile, disgusting, and un-Roman? Citizens! Did you all not, just yesterday, see that insolent fool’s own sister, the most notorious whore in Rome, climb upon the Rostra-that monument of our ancient greatness-and put on the most unholy, scandalous, and lascivious display ever to offend the eyes of the public?” At this the audience cheered and whistled. “Has Rome seen so horrid a woman since Tullia ran over her own father with a chariot?”

Here Curio and his claque booed, hissed, shouted, and made rude gestures. Cato ignored them.

“The gods of Rome,” he went on, working himself up to a foaming frenzy, “must be appalled! First, that we even allow this hideous family to reside among us, polluting the sacred precincts of Romulus. Second, that we should even consider a trial of this virtuous young Roman for the murder of one of them! Rather, the Senate should declare days of thanksgiving to the gods for the death of Marcus Fulvius. There should be holidays and rejoicing! We should deck the temples in festive array, people should feast their neighbors and give sacrifices in gratitude that Marcus Fulvius no longer offends the sight of gods and men!”

“Cato’s in fine form today,” muttered someone behind me.

“This is extreme even for him,” Father said. “There’s such a thing as going too far in a denunciation.”

“It’s traditional,” said Scipio, with a shrug in his voice.

“Where is the evidence,” Cato went on, “that Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger slew Marcus Fulvius, richly though that man deserved it? He spent almost the entirety of that night together with the most illustrious men in Rome, not only the great men of his family, but the distinguished consular Hortensius Hortalus and the estimable Appius Claudius!

“Can it be a matter for wonder that Marcus Fulvius ended up dead? A man like him can number his enemies as an astronomer enumerates the stars! The only cause for wonder is that he could step from his doorway even once without being set upon by the hordes of those he had mortally offended, each of them bent upon revenge and justice! How many aggrieved, cuckolded husbands must have thirsted for his blood? How many fathers of children debauched by Marcus Fulvius must have whetted their daggers in anticipation of that blessed consummation?”

He went on in this vein for some time, making Fulvius sound like a greater menace to Rome than Hannibal had ever been, while I was a savior to compare with Quintus Fabius Maximus Cunctator. It was, as Scipio had intimated, a conventional defense. It was just that Cato was better at the vituperative part than almost anybody. Only Cicero, on one of his best days, could match him.

He ended up with, “Let no tear be shed in Rome for the likes of Marcus Fulvius. Allow the name of this loathsome wretch to be forgotten by all honorable citizens. Let his ashes be entombed in Baiae, along with all the fornicators, whores, and catamites of that accursed city, whose entitlement to Roman citizenship was one of the great moral failings of Roman policy. Let us instead rejoice that we have, and will continue to have, the unstinting, patriotic services of Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, a soldier, a statesman, a seeker after justice, a smiter of the wicked and protector of the innocent, whose illustrious ancestors have adorned our city in glory for centuries. Romans, you must find him innocent, even of this crime that was no crime at all!” And with the last word the water clock was empty and the beaker was full.

It was a wonderful performance, and the applause was loud and lasted a long time. Then Manilius rose from his bench and the noise abated. The slave put in the plug, hoisted the beaker and poured the water back into the bronze cylinder of the clock. He set the beaker back under the spout and, at the tribune’s nod, removed the plug again.

“Citizens,” he began, in a voice that was not strident like Cato’s but carried as far, “the illustrious Marcus Porcius Cato has provided us with splendid entertainment but little of substance. As to the constitutionality of this court, it is a favor to the esteemed Senator Metellus that we hold it at all. When the late Marcus Fulvius leveled his charges against the senator, the praetor Marcus Juventius Laterensis scheduled a trial in his court for the next day, in violation of the usual custom. And why was this? Because, as all know, it is election time. Any trial not held now will have to be carried over into next year, with a new set of magistrates in office. That would mean that the senator could not stand for praetor in tomorrow’s election, and would he wish that?”

Voices throughout the crowd proclaimed that this would certainly not be the case. I tried to make out who was saying this, but couldn’t discern much in the sea of faces. Probably Manilius’s clients, I thought, whose duty it was to applaud and repeat their patron’s most telling points. My own would do the same.

“As for the competence of the comitia tribute to try a capital case, that is debatable, but it is not at issue here. Roman justice does not call for the death penalty to be applied against a Roman citizen for the slaying of another, save in very special, narrow circumstances. Citizens,” here his gestures, expression, and tone conveyed great sadness, “the sorry fact is that we have become so accustomed to murder that we are no longer shocked by it. A slaughter that once would have roused the public to fury is now greeted with shrugs and yawns. This, even when the victim is of senatorial status. And who has brought us to such a pass? Why, the senators themselves, who, from being the dispensers of justice, have become the perpetrators of internecine butchery!” Now his voice climbed in high emotion.

“I don’t like the sound of this,” Scipio said behind me. All the others agreed.

“Have we not all seen,” Manilius went on, “how these supposed ‘conscript fathers’ have schemed and conspired against one another for power, prestige, and honor? One after another has trodden upon the bodies of the others to make himself ‘first among equals,’ only to be brought down in his turn. Cneaus Pompeius Magnus”-here he extended a finger toward Pompey-“has inveighed against the violent street gangs and taken action to drive them from Rome. But who was behind those gangs? Were they enriching themselves? Nonsense! Were they advancing the cause of the people? Laughable! No, they were each and every one in the employ of one or another of the little senatorial cliques, of vile, ambitious men who keep their own hands clean while ordering others to do the dirty work!”

The crowd vented an ugly grumble. This was looking bad. What made it worse was that everything he said was perfectly true.

“He’s not talking like a prosecutor,” Father said. “He’s talking like a candidate!”

“What’s the difference?” asked Creticus, setting off a nervous chuckle from the others.

“And now,” Manilius went on, “absolutely no one is surprised that an obscure man, a man of great family but one who had not yet won distinction in Rome, was murdered. And why? Because he had shown the temerity to attack, openly and honestly, a member of one of the Senate’s most powerful families! Did he attack this Metellus from behind, at night, with a dagger? No! He accused him openly of criminal malfeasance on Cyprus, took his accusation to a praetor, and then went to the Forum and sought out Metellus, repeating the charges in public, to his face. Are these the actions of a cowardly, dishonest, conniving wretch? Are these not, rather, the actions of a man devoted to the service of the state in the greatest Roman tradition?” This was received with an angry, frightening cheer. Gaul was sounding better by the minute.

“The esteemed senator Marcus Porcius Cato,” he drove on relentlessly, giving an amazingly contemptuous twist to the word “esteemed,” “has denounced the family of Marcus Fulvius as infamous. Upon what basis does he make this scurrilous charge? Residence at Baiae? Only Cato, that upright, righteous defender of Roman virtue, could find fault with that lovely resort city, where Cicero, Hortensius Hortalus, and Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus himself all own villas!” This time there was derisive laughter, which was at least better than the angry growl.

“You’ve locked your teeth into the wrong backside this time, Cato,” said Creticus.

“He denounces this murdered man’s grief-stricken sister as a scandalous woman. And why? Merely because, in her extremity of distress, she performed a womanly gesture of mourning hallowed by a thousand years or more of funerary custom, one immortalized in many poems written by those very ancestors Cato professes to admire. It fell from practice only because the women of his own class now consider themselves too dignified for such low-bred demonstrations. They think such things are beneath them!”

“She wasn’t grieving for her brother!” Cato cried. “The bitch was pissed off that her boyfriend got his head bloodied!” But his shout went unheard in the roar that met Manilius’s harangue.

“And who might be this Fulvius, and his sister Fulvia, whose family Cato defames? They are the grandchildren of the Gracchi! Their great-grandmother was the sanctified Cornelia, mother of the Gracchi! And her father was Scipio Africanus, greatest of Roman generals and savior of the Republic, humbler of Carthage, who defeated Hannibal at Zama! This is the lineage Cato compares disparagingly with that of Caecilius Metellus! And we all remember who robbed that greatest of generals of all his richly deserved honors, don’t we?”

Probably, most of the crowd was a bit hazy about such distant history, but someone out there had been well primed.

“Cato the Censor!” bellowed a Stentorian voice.

“Exactly,” Manilius cried, with a gesture of triumph. “Cato the Censor, great-great-grandfather of the man who so basely denigrates a man whose career was so promising, cut tragically short by murder!”

“He was my great-great-great-grandfather!” Cato cried to no avail. “And he was the finest, most patriotic Roman who ever lived!” Once again his voice was drowned by the roar of the crowd.

“It could be worse,” I told him. “At least they’re mad at you, not me.”

“Patron!” The call came from below, and I looked down. It was young Burrus, looking concerned. “Do you want to make a run for it? We’ll get you out safely.”

“Might be the best idea,” Father said. “Go join Caesar in Gaul, come back when this is all forgotten.”

“No,” I told young Burrus. “I’m not ready to panic yet. I have a few things to say to this political rat. But stay handy. I may want to panic later.”

“How will you play this?” Scipio wanted to know.

“We’ll start out the old way, then see what develops.”

“This man,” Manilius cried, pointing now at me, “unwilling, nay, afraid to face Marcus Fulvius in court, instead set upon him at night and murdered him! He had not the courage to step up to him decently and stab him. Instead, he and his slaves or confederates held Marcus Fulvius from behind and butchered him wretchedly with knives. We all saw that ravaged corpse, did we not? Marcus Fulvius was rent with a score of gashes, as if he were tortured to death rather than given a clean, soldierly thrust in the heart. This was not mere hatred, but the cruelest of malice!”

He was getting the crowd well whipped up. The jury stared at me with stony eyes. Of the tribunes on the bench, the anti-Caesarians glared at me, the pro-Caesarians watched expectantly to see what I would do.

“He’s not a well-trained orator,” Scipio said. “See, he’s getting out of breath already. If you want to save your career, Decius, you’d better step in quick.”

“A moment,” I said. “I want to see what this is winding up to.”

Manilius took a deep breath. “Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger,” he yelled, now getting hoarse, “resorted to murder rather than face charges of malfeasance, of despoiling Roman citizens while on Cyprus. Rather than face trial, he murdered his accuser! What greater proof do you need that he is guilty of all the charges Fulvius laid against him? Malfeasance and murder, Citizens! Is this a man you want sitting in judgment upon you in a curule chair? Does this man deserve to be praetor?”

The crowds shouts and gestures showed a dangerous edge forming. The pro-Metellans and Caesar’s troops tried to shout them down, but it only added to the disorder. The time was past when we had enough support among the plebs to control the Forum.

“Well,” I said, “time to do my bit. Watch yourselves. If I don’t pull this off, they may storm the podium.”

I strode forth, using my best forceful-but-with-anger-restrained stride. I was taller than Manilius and drew myself up to emphasize my stature. From the tribunal bench, Vibius Pansa winked at me and whispered, “Decius, show this puffed-up toad how a real Roman orator handles the likes of him.”

“Publius Manilius Scrofa!” I yelled, as if he weren’t just three steps before me. “You are a liar, a perjuror, and an unworthy servant of the people of Rome! Begone before you disgrace yourself and your sacrosanct office further!”

He was nonplussed. He hadn’t expected this.

“Metellus, by what right do you speak? Cato is your advocate!”

I had two things in my favor: he had split the crowd’s wrath between Cato and me, and I was still a popular man.

“I speak forth because I am a servant of the Senate and People of Rome and because I am a better man than you!” The crowd calmed down, expecting something even better than they had heard so far. Well, I intended to give it to them. I turned to face that great sea of citizenry.

“Romans! Have I, Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, not served the state indefatigably since I shaved off my first beard?”

My supporters led the cheer, and it was picked up, weakly at first. “Have I not, as Cato has said, prosecuted the wicked and protected the innocent?” More cheers. “And when I was aedile, twice, Citizens, did I not provide you with wonderful games?”

Now the crowd remembered why they liked me. The cheers were loud and heartfelt. Everyone had loved those shows.

“Who else,” I said, “has ever brought that many famous champions out of retirement for your entertainment? Could any other man have provided you with that final combat in the funeral munera for Metellus Celer, when the great Draco and the equally illustrious Petraites, greatest champions of our time, contended for a full hour, brave and skillful as Homeric heroes? Petraites spent six months recovering from his wounds!”

Now the cheers were genuinely ecstatic. Some openly wept with enjoyment at the memory. These people really loved those spectacles, and at that moment I didn’t begrudge a single denarius of the fortune I had spent on them.

“What are you babbling about, you buffoon?” Manilius cried. Somehow he had lost control of the situation.

I strode over to him, stood no more than a foot before him, and studied his face.

“What are you doing?”

“Speaking of wounds,” I said, conversationally but loud enough for everyone to hear, “where are yours? I’m looking for scars. I don’t see any. You see this?” I drew a finger along the ragged scar that decorates my face, “An Iberian spear made this. That was in the rebellion of Sertorius. I haven’t been able to get a decent shave in all the years since.”

Now I turned to face the crowd. Did they think Fulvia was the only one who could strip in public? Well, now they had a show coming. I flung off my toga, making it unfurl dramatically as it flew through the air. Hermes caught it adroitly. Then I tore my tunic open with a loud rip, letting it fall to drape around my hips.

“Citizens! This,” here I pointed at an ugly puncture on my left shoulder, “was made by a German spear! And this,” I displayed a foot-long gash along my ribs, “is the mark of a Gallic longsword! Here and here,” two deep punctures on my right side, “arrows shot from a pirate ship off Cyprus! And this,” I hauled up the skirt of my tunic, exposing a truly awesome scar that ran from my left hipbone all the way down to the knee, “is where I was run over by a British war chariot!” The air filled with gasps and murmurs of admiration. This was a real crowd pleaser. The night before, Julia had touched up my scars with cosmetics to make them show better.

I stood with feet planted wide and spread my arms, showing off my many lesser scars, most of them won in street brawls but a good many in battle. “I have been wounded in every part of my body, and all these wounds I have suffered on your behalf, the Roman people, the greatest people in the world!” Now the cheering was frantic. When it quieted a little I swung an arm and pointed to Manilius, making sure that everyone got a good look at the long scar inside my right upper arm. Clodius had given me that one with a dagger.

“What wounds, what hardships has this man endured in your service? I’ve heard that he served, briefly, with my friend Gen. Aulus Gabinius in Syria. That excellent general saw immediately what sort of man had been fobbed off on him and never saw fit to give to him any position of distinction. You can bet that Gabinius watched him closely, too! Sent him back home with no commendations, much less decorations for valor, just another time server, putting in enough months with the eagles to qualify him for office!”

I was swinging wild, putting together what little I knew of the man, but I was connecting solidly. His face went scarlet. So this was his weakness, eh?

“The honors fall upon you and your kind,” he shouted, “because the great generals are all your relatives! So you served in Spain against Sertorius? How did you come by your command of native troops, young as you were? I’ll tell you. It was because your great-uncle was Metellus Pius, who had the command before Pompey took over! Have you served all over Gaul and Britain? It is only because you are married to Caesar’s niece!”

“And now would you defame Julia?” I bellowed. The growl from the crowd wasn’t pleasant to hear, but at least it wasn’t directed at me. Sallustius had been right. The people adored the Julian women.

“I do no such thing!” He was losing track of his thoughts now. “You are trying to confuse the people with this absurd display and with your wild accusations. You think you can escape your guilt with this spectacle of breeding and glory.”

I held up a hand for silence, and gradually the crowd quieted. It was time for a change of pace.

“Very well. Let’s forget about families and scars, about services to the state and public spectacles, magnificent though they might be. Let us consider”-I paused dramatically-“evidence.”

“Evidence?” he said, as if he had never heard the word. Maybe he hadn’t.

“Yes, evidence. It refers to the tangible and perceptible signs that something has or has not taken place. All those things that do not in themselves constitute proof, but that, taken collectively, point to the truth.”

“The concept is not unknown to me,” he said, gathering up his dignity. But he was playing my game now. “Of what does this evidence of yours consist?”

I cast my gaze around. The crowd was respectfully silent now, intrigued by this unexpected turn. My family looked distressed, afraid that I would now trot out all the business of codes and conspiracies and make myself look like an idiot. I saw familiar faces watching me with varying degrees of anticipation. Pompey looked disgusted. Curio showed a cool amusement, but beneath that was something else: apprehension? A small crowd of high-born women watched from the steps of the Temple of Castor and Pollux, surrounded by their slaves to keep the rabble away. Among them I saw Octavia, watching with a fatalistic resignation. Fulvia was there, looking like she was enjoying herself. Julia smiled at me with sublime confidence. I smiled back, briefly.

“Evidence,” I said, “can take the form of words spoken without thought, words that betray a man’s hidden guilt. But in order for these words to constitute evidence, they must be heard by more than a single witness. Best of all is if they should be spoken in public.”

“Very well,” Manilius said, “what words were spoken and who heard them? Bring forth your witnesses, always taking into account, of course”-here he gestured broadly to the people-“that the rich and powerful can always bribe and suborn all the witnesses they need. Such evidence should be given no more credence than it deserves.”

“Why,” I said, “my witnesses are these citizens assembled in the Forum.” Now it was my turn for the broad, sweeping gesture, taking them all in. “I think that all of these good citizens will agree that just a few moments ago, they heard you say that Marcus Fulvius was held from behind and foully butchered.”

“Yes, so?”

“That he was slashed many times none can doubt. But how did you come to know that he was held from behind?”

“Why-it was obvious.” Now he was badly rattled, unprepared for this.

“Not to me, it wasn’t. Many distinguished men were on the steps of the basilica that day, not only members of my own family but the praetor Juventius, the consular Appius Claudius Pulcher, as well as many honest citizens of all classes. The terrible wounds on the body of Fulvius were apparent to all, but not such subtle details as the fact that he was restrained.”

“It just makes sense!” he cried.

“Not without a certain amount of examination, an impossible task on those steps, in the dim light of early morning. In fact, I had the body taken to the Temple of Venus Libitina and there examined by the famous Asklepiodes. That learned man pointed out to me that Fulvius’s wounds were all on the front of his torso, that he had been unable to turn or to bring his arms into play. Hence, he must have been restrained.

“When I speculated that he might have been bound, Asklepiodes informed me that, in that case, the marks of cords or shackles would have been plainly visible. They were not, hence Fulvius was held, from behind, by at least two powerful men while his assailants plunged their blades into his body. You are no Greek physician, Manilius. How did you know?”

There was dead silence throughout the Forum, and this was more ominous than the growling and shouting had been.

“But I had no cause to wish the death of Fulvius! Citizens, don’t listen to this fool!”

“Oh, you barely knew the man. But then, you don’t act for yourself, do you? Who told you to get rid of him? Might it have been the same person or persons who gave you that fine, rich villa in Baiae? One that is almost as fine as Cicero’s or Pompey’s?” A bit of an exaggeration, but not by much. I pointed up at the great building cloaking the hillside to the west. “The evidence is right there, Citizens! In the Tabularium! Last year, when he declared himself a candidate, he listed among his assets a splendid villa in Baiae that he did not own on the last census!”

The low rumble came again from the crowd. Even when I was inciting it, I was dismayed and frightened by how easily they could be swayed. One minute they thirsted for my blood, the next for his.

“He was bought! Tell us, Manilius! Who owns you? Who were your accomplices in the murder of Marcus Fulvius? Were they one and the same?” Now I looked around again. The Marcelli were nowhere to be seen, but they could be lurking in the shade of porticoes or hiding in covered litters. Curio had gone pale. Curio, who had told me that he and Manilius had worked closely together the previous year. Curio, who had somehow known that Fulvius had been murdered elsewhere and carried to the basilica steps.

“You barely knew the man. But there are men in the Senate, and prominent members of the Equestrian Order, who know otherwise. In the last year, Fulvius gave a number of dinners where radical politics were discussed. You were at every one of those gatherings, weren’t you, Publius Manilius? Remember, this crowd is full of witnesses who know the truth, though they may be hesitant to speak up now. They also know that the policies you now espouse are at variance with those discussed in those meetings. You and Fulvius had a falling-out, didn’t you? A deadly one.”

Manilius drew himself up. “You may not accuse, nor lay violent hands upon, the person of a Tribune of the People!”

“Until sundown, Manilius,” Cato shouted, pointing at the angle of the sun. “At sundown you and all the other tribunes lay down your powers and become ordinary citizens. How far can you get by sundown, Manilius?”

“I declare this procedure at an end!” Manilius cried. “All citizens are to disperse!” With the shreds remaining of his dignity, he descended the steps and began his long walk across the Forum. People drew back from him as if he carried some deadly contagion. It gave new meaning to the word “untouchable.”

Cato strode to the edge of the podium and spoke to the soldiers. “A tribune loses his powers and his sacrosanctity if he passes the first milestone. Post men on all the roads out of the city and arrest him as soon as he passes the milestone.”

“Bring him back here alive,” I told them. “I want the names of his accomplices.”

“What are the chances,” Father asked, “that he’ll even reach one of the gates?”

“Slim,” I acknowledged. “Too many people need to clean up after themselves.”

“Unfortunate,” said Metellus Creticus. “It would be nice to get the Marcelli barred from the consulship.”

“Yes,” I said, “and now we’ll have to keep an eye on Curio.”

“Curio is Caesar’s man,” Scipio said. “Why would he be involved in this?”

Cato shook his head in disgust. “It’s like casting your net for a whole school of fish and drawing back only one, and that one not the biggest of them.”

“Sometimes,” I said, “you just have to catch them one at a time.”

All that was a long time ago. Of course, the Marcelli held onto the consulship and, as everyone knows, Caesar became dictator and Octavia’s brother, Octavius, became his heir; he is now our First Citizen. Ironically, Marcellus, the son of Caius Marcellus and Octavia, turned out to be the First Citizen’s favorite nephew and would have been his heir had he not died tragically young. Fulvia eventually married Antonius, but then, so did Octavia, although she lost him to Cleopatra. When you consider how it all turned out, it’s a little hard to understand what they were all fighting and clawing at one another for during those dying days of the Republic. But it all somehow seemed terribly important at the time.

These were the events of five days in the year 703 of the City of Rome, the consulship of Servius Sulpicius Rufus and Marcus Claudius Marcellus.