Imperium

Roll XVI

TO DISCOVER WHAT WAS GOING ON, Cicero devised a trap. Rather than simply asking around about what Crassus was up to-which would have got him nowhere, and also have alerted his enemies that he was suspicious-he instructed Ranunculus and Filum to go out into the city and let it be known that they were representing a certain anonymous senator who was worried about his prospects in the forthcoming consular ballot, and was willing to pay fifty sesterces per vote to the right electoral syndicate.

Ranunculus was a runtish, almost half-formed creature, with a flat, round face at the end of a feeble body, who well deserved his nickname of “Tadpole.” Filum was a giant spindle, an animated candlestick. Their fathers and grandfathers had been bribery agents before them. They knew the score. They disappeared into the back streets and bars, and a week or so later reported back to Cicero that something very strange was going on. All the usual bribery agents were refusing to cooperate. “Which means,” as Ranunculus put it, in his squeaky voice, “either that Rome is full of honest men for the first time in three hundred years, or every vote that was up for sale has already been bought.”

“There must be someone who will crack for a higher price,” insisted Cicero. “You had better do the rounds again, and this time offer a hundred.”

So back they went, and back they returned after another week with the same story. Such was the huge amount that the bribery agents were already being paid, and such was their nervousness about antagonizing their mysterious client, that there was not a single vote to be had, and not a breath of rumor as to who that client might be. Now you might well wonder, given the thousands of votes involved, how such an immense operation could remain so tight a secret. The answer is that it was very cleverly organized, with perhaps only a dozen agents, or interpretes as they were called, knowing the identity of the buyer (I regret to say that both Ranunculus and Filum had acted as interpretes in the past). These men would contact the officials of the voting syndicates and strike the initial bargain-such-and-such a price for fifty votes, say, or five hundred, depending on the size of the syndicate. Because naturally no one trusted anyone else in this game, the money would then be deposited with a second category of agent, known as the sequester, who would hold the cash available for inspection. And finally, when the election was over and it was time to settle up, a third species of criminal, the so-called divisor, would distribute it. This made it extremely difficult to bring a successful prosecution, for even if a man was arrested in the very act of handing over a bribe, he might genuinely have no idea of who had commissioned the corruption in the first place. But still Cicero refused to accept that someone would not talk. “We are dealing with bribery agents,” he shouted, in a rare show of anger, “not an ancient order of Roman knights! Somewhere you will find a man who will betray even as dangerous a paymaster as Crassus, if the money is good enough. Go and track him down and find his price-or must I do everything myself?”

By this time-I suppose it must have been well into June, about a month before the election-everyone knew that something strange was going on. It was turning into one of the most memorable and closely fought campaigns in living memory, with a field of no fewer than seven for the consulship, a reflection of the fact that many men fancied their chances that year. The three front-runners were reckoned to be Catilina, Hybrida, and Cicero. Then came the snobbish and acerbic Galba, and the deeply religious Cornificius. The two no-hopers were the corpulent ex-praetor, Cassius Longinius, and Gaius Licinius Sacerdos, who had been governor of Sicily even before Verres, and who was at least a decade older than his rivals. (Sacerdos was one of those irritating candidates who enter elections “not out of any personal ambition,” as they like to say, but solely with the intention of “raising issues.” “Always beware of the man who says he is not seeking office for himself,” said Cicero, “for he is the vainest of the lot.”) Realizing that the bribery agents were unusually active, the senior consul, Marcius Figulus, was prevailed upon by several of these candidates to bring before the Senate a severe new law against electoral malpractice: what he hoped would become the lex Figula. It was already illegal for a candidate to offer a bribe; the new bill also made it a criminal offense for a voter to accept one.

When the time came for the measure to be debated in the Senate, the consul first went around to each of the candidates in turn to ask for his opinion. Sacerdos, as the senior man, spoke first, and made a pious speech in favor; I could see Cicero squirming with irritation at his platitudes. Hybrida naturally spoke against, but in his usual bumbling and unmemorable way-no one would ever have believed his father had once been the most eagerly sought advocate in Rome. Galba, who was going to lose badly in any case, took this opportunity to withdraw from the election, loftily announcing that there was no glory in participating in such a squalid contest, which disgraced the memory of his ancestors. Catilina, for obvious reasons, also spoke against the lex Figula, and I must concede that he was impressive. Utterly without nerves, he towered over the benches around him, and when he came to the end of his remarks he pointed at Cicero and roared that the only men who would benefit from yet another new piece of legislation were the lawyers, which drew the usual cheers from the aristocrats. Cicero was in a delicate position, and as he rose I wondered what he would say. Obviously he did not wish to see the legislation fail, but nor, on the eve of the most important election of his life, did he want to alienate the voting syndicates, who naturally regarded the bill as an attack on their honor. His response was adroit.

“In general I welcome this bill,” he said, “which can only be a terror to those who are guilty. The honest citizen has nothing to fear from a law against bribery, and the dishonest should be reminded that a vote is a sacred trust, not a voucher to be cashed in once a year. But there is one thing wrong with it: an imbalance which needs to be redressed. Are we really saying that the poor man who succumbs to temptation is more to be condemned than the rich man who deliberately places temptation in his way? I say the opposite: that if we are to legislate against the one, we must strengthen the sanctions against the other. With your permission, therefore, Figulus, I wish to propose an amendment to your bill: that any person who solicits, or seeks to solicit, or causes to be solicited, the vote of any citizen in return for money, should be liable to a penalty of ten years’ exile.” That produced an excited and long-drawn-out “Oohh!” from all around the chamber.

I could not see Crassus’s face from where I was standing, but Cicero delightedly assured me afterwards that it turned bright red, for that phrase, “or causes to be solicited,” was aimed directly at him, and everyone knew it. The consul placidly accepted the amendment and asked if any member wished to speak against it. But the majority of the house were too surprised to react, and those such as Crassus who stood to lose most dared not expose themselves in public by openly opposing it. Accordingly, the amendment was carried without opposition, and when the house divided on the main bill, it was passed by a large margin. Figulus, preceded by his lictors, left the chamber, and all the senators filed out into the sunshine to watch him mount the rostra and give the bill to the herald for an immediate first reading. I saw Hybrida make a move toward Crassus, but Catilina caught his arm, and Crassus walked rapidly away from the Forum, to avoid being seen with his nominees. The usual three weekly market days would now have to elapse before the bill could be voted upon, which meant that the people would have their say almost on the eve of the consular election.

Cicero was pleased with his day’s work, for the possibility now opened up that if the lex Figula passed, and if he lost the election because of bribery, he might be in a position to launch a prosecution not only against Catilina and Hybrida, but also against his master enemy Crassus himself. It was only two years, after all, since a previous pair of consuls-elect had been stripped of their offices for electoral malpractice. But to succeed in such an action he would require evidence, and the pressure to find it became even more intense. Every waking hour he now spent canvassing, going about with a great crowd of supporters, but never with a nomenclator at his elbow to whisper the names of the voters; unlike his opponents, Cicero took great pride in being able to remember thousands of names, and on the rare occasion when he met someone whose identity he had forgotten, he could always bluff his way through.

I admired him greatly at this time, for he must have known that the odds were heavily against him and the chances were that he was going to lose. Piso’s prediction about Pompey had proved amply correct, and the great man had not lifted a finger to assist Cicero during the campaign. He had established himself at Amisus, on the eastern edge of the Black Sea-which is about as far away from Rome as it is possible to get-and there, like some great Eastern potentate, he was receiving homage from no fewer than twelve native kings. Syria had been annexed. Mithradates was in headlong retreat. Pompey’s house on the Esquiline had been decorated with the captured beaks of fifty pirate triremes and was nowadays known as the domus rostra-a shrine to his admirers all across Italy. What did Pompey care anymore about the pygmy struggles of mere civilians? Cicero’s letters to him went unanswered. Quintus railed against his ingratitude, but Cicero was fatalistic: “If it is gratitude you want, get a dog.”

THREE DAYS BEFORE the consular election, and on the eve of the vote on the bribery law, there was at last a breakthrough. Ranunculus came rushing in to see Cicero with the news that he had found a bribery agent named Gaius Salinator, who claimed to be in a position to sell three hundred votes for five hundred sesterces apiece. He owned a bar in the Subura called the Bacchante, and it had been agreed that Ranunculus would go to see him that very night, give him the name of the candidate for whom the bribed electors were to vote, and at the same time hand over the money to one of the sequestris, who was trusted by them both. When Cicero heard about this he became very excited, and insisted that he would accompany Ranunculus to the meeting, with a hood pulled down to conceal his well-known face. Quintus was against the plan, considering it too dangerous, but Cicero was insistent that he needed to gather evidence firsthand. “I shall have Ranunculus and Tiro with me for protection,” he said (I assume this was one of his jokes), “but perhaps you could arrange for a few loyal supporters to be drinking in the neighborhood, just in case we need more assistance.”

I was by this time almost forty, and after a life devoted exclusively to clerical duties my hands were as soft as a maiden’s. In the event of trouble it would be Cicero, whose daily exercises had given him an imposing physique, who would be called upon to protect me. Nevertheless, I opened up the safe in his study and began counting out the cash we needed in silver coin. (He had a well-stocked campaign fund, made up of gifts from his admirers, which he drew on to pay for such expenses as his tour of Nearer Gaul; this money was not bribes, as such, although obviously it was comforting for the donors to know that Cicero was a man who famously never forgot a name.) Anyway, this silver was fitted into a money belt which I had to strap around my waist, and with a heavy tread, in both senses of the phrase, I descended with Cicero at dusk into the Subura. He cut a curious figure wearing a hooded tunic borrowed from one of his slaves, for the night was very warm. But in the crowded slums of the poor, the bizarrely dressed are an everyday sight, and when people saw a man with a hood pulled down low over his face they gave him a wide berth, perhaps fearing that he had leprosy or some other disfiguring ailment. We followed Ranunculus, who darted, appropriately tadpole-like, through the labyrinth of narrow squalid alleys which were his natural habitat, until at last we came to a corner where men were sitting, leaning against the wall, passing a jar of wine back and forth. Above their heads, beside the door, was a painting of Bacchus with his groin thrust out, relieving himself, and the spot had the smell to match the sign. Ranunculus stepped inside and led us behind the counter and up some narrow wooden stairs to a raftered room, where Salinator was waiting, along with another man, the sequester, whose name I never learned.

They were so anxious to see the money, they paid little attention to the hooded figure behind me. I had to take off my belt and show them a handful of coins, whereupon the sequester produced a small pair of scales and began weighing the silver. Salinator, who was a flabby, lank-haired, potbellied creature, watched this for a while, then said to Ranunculus, “That seems well enough. Now you had better give me the name of your client.”

“I am his client,” said Cicero, throwing back his hood. Needless to say, Salinator recognized him at once, and stepped back in alarm, crashing into the sequester and his scales. The bribery agent struggled to recover, hopelessly trying to turn his stumble into a sequence of bows, and began some improvised speech about what an honor it was and so forth to help the senator in his campaign, but Cicero shut him up quickly. “I do not require any help from the likes of you, wretch! All I require is information.”

Salinator had just begun to whine that he knew nothing when suddenly the sequester dropped his scales and made a dive for the staircase. He must have got about halfway down before he ran into the solid figure of Quintus, who spun him around, hauled him up by his collar and the seat of his tunic, and threw him back into the room. Coming up the stairs behind Quintus, I was relieved to see, were a couple of stout young lads who often served as Cicero’s attendants. At the sight of so many, and confronted by the most famous advocate in Rome, Salinator’s resistance began to weaken. What finished it altogether was Cicero’s threat to hand him over to Crassus for trying to sell the same votes twice, for nothing scared him more than Crassus’s retribution. I was reminded of that phrase about Old Baldhead which Cicero had repeated years before: “the most dangerous bull in the herd.”

“Your client is Crassus, then?” asked Cicero. “Think carefully before you deny it.”

Salinator’s chin twitched slightly, the nearest he dared come to a nod.

“And you were to deliver three hundred votes to Hybrida and Catilina for the consulship?”

Again he gave the ghost of a nod. “For them,” he said, “and the others.”

“Others? You mean Lentulus Sura for praetor?”

“Yes. Him. And the others.”

“You keep saying ‘the others,’” said Cicero, frowning. “Who are these ‘others’?”

“Keep your mouth shut!” shouted the sequester, but Quintus kicked him in the stomach and he groaned and rolled over.

“Ignore him,” said Cicero affably. “He is a bad influence. I know the type. You can tell me.” He put an encouraging hand on the bribery agent’s arm. “The others?”

“Cosconius,” said Salinator, casting a nervous glance at the figure writhing on the floor. Then he took a breath and said rapidly, in a quiet voice, “Pomptinus. Balbus. Caecilius. Labienus. Faberius. Gutta. Bulbus. Calidius. Tudicius. Valgius. And Rullus.”

As each new name was mentioned, Cicero looked more and more astonished. “Is that it?” he said when Salinator had finished. “You are sure there is no one left in the Senate you have forgotten?” He glanced across at Quintus, who was looking equally amazed.

“That is not just two candidates for consul,” said Quintus. “That is three candidates for praetor and ten for tribune. Crassus is trying to buy the entire government!”

Cicero was not a man who liked to show surprise, but even he could not disguise it that night. “This is completely absurd,” he protested. “How much is each of these votes costing?”

“Five hundred for consul,” replied Salinator, as if he were selling pigs at market. “Two hundred for praetor. One hundred for tribune.”

“So you are telling me,” said Cicero, frowning as he performed the calculation, “that Crassus is willing to pay three quarters of a million merely for the three hundred votes in your syndicate?”

Salinator nodded, this time more vigorously, even happily, and with a certain professional pride. “It has been the most magnificent canvass anyone can remember.”

Cicero turned to Ranunculus, who had been keeping watch at the window in case of any trouble in the street. “How many votes do you think Crassus will have bought altogether at this sort of price?”

“To feel confident of victory?” replied Ranunculus. He pondered the matter judiciously. “It must be seven or eight thousand.”

“Eight thousand?” repeated Cicero. “Eight thousand would cost him twenty million. Have you ever heard the like? And at the end of it, he is not even in office himself, but has filled the magistracies with ninnies like Hybrida and Lentulus Sura.” He turned back to Salinator. “Did he give you any reason for such an immense exercise?”

“No, senator. Crassus is not a man much given to answering questions.”

“Well, he will answer some fucking questions now,” Quintus said, and to relieve his frustration he aimed another kick at the belly of the sequester, who had just started to rise, and sent the fellow groaning and crashing back to the floor.

QUINTUS WAS ALL FOR BEATING the last scrap of information out of the two hapless agents, and then either marching them around to the house of Crassus and demanding that he put a stop to his schemes, or dragging them before the Senate, reading out their confessions, and calling for the elections to be postponed. But Cicero kept a cooler head. With a straight face he thanked Salinator for his honesty, then told Quintus to have a cup of wine and calm down, and me to gather up our silver. Later, when we had returned home, he sat in his study and tossed that little leather exercise ball of his from one hand to the other, while Quintus raged that he had been a fool to let the two bribery agents go, that they would surely now alert Crassus or flee the city.

“They will not do either,” replied Cicero. “To go to Crassus and tell him what has happened would be to sign their own death warrants. Crassus would never leave such incriminating witnesses alive, and they know it. And flight would merely bring about the same result, except that it would take him longer to track them down.” Back and forth, back and forth went the ball. “Besides, no crime has been committed. Bribery is hard enough to prove at the best of times-impossible to establish when not a vote has been cast. Crassus and the Senate would merely laugh at us. No, the best thing is to leave them at liberty, where at least we know where to find them again, and be ready to subpoena them if we lose the election.” He threw the ball higher and caught it with a swiping motion. “You were right about one thing, though, Quintus.”

“Was I really?” said Quintus bitterly. “How kind of you to say so.”

“Crassus’s action has nothing to do with his enmity for me. He would not spend twenty million simply to frustrate my hopes. He would only invest twenty million if the likely return were huge. What can it be? On that issue I must confess myself baffled.” He stared at the wall for a while. “Tiro, you always got on well with young Caelius Rufus, didn’t you?”

I remembered the shirked tasks which I had been obliged to complete for him, the lies I had told to keep him out of trouble the day he stole my savings and persuaded me not to report his thieving to Cicero. “Reasonably well, senator,” I replied cautiously.

“Go and talk to him tomorrow morning. Be subtle about it. See if you can extract any clues from him about what Crassus is up to. He lives under the same roof, after all. He must know something.”

I lay awake long into the night, pondering all of this, and feeling increasingly anxious for the future. Cicero did not sleep much either. I could hear him pacing around upstairs. The force of his concentration seemed almost to penetrate the floorboards, and when sleep at last came to me, it was restless and full of portents.

The following morning I left Laurea to deal with Cicero’s press of visitors and set off to walk the mile or so to the house of Crassus. Even today, when the sky is cloudless and the mid-July heat feels oppressive even before the sun is up, I whisper to myself, “Election weather!” and feel again that familiar clench of excitement in my stomach. The sound of hammering and sawing rose from the Forum, as the workmen finished the erection of the ramps and fences around the Temple of Castor. It was the day on which the bribery bill was to be put to the vote of the people, and I cut through behind the temple and paused to take a drink from the tepid waters of the fountain of Juturna. I had no idea what I was going to say to Caelius. I am a most inexpert liar-I always have been-and I realized I should have asked Cicero to advise me on some line to take, but it was too late now. I climbed the path to the Palatine, and when I reached the house of Crassus I told the porter that I had an urgent message for Caelius Rufus. He offered to let me wait inside but I declined. Instead, while he went off to fetch the young man, I crossed the street and tried to make myself as inconspicuous as possible.

Crassus’s house, like the man himself, presented a very modest façade to the world, although I had been told that this was deceptive, and that once you got inside it went back a long way. The door was dark, low and narrow but stout, flanked by two small barred windows. Ivy climbed across peeling walls of light ocher. The terra-cotta roof was also ancient, and the edges of the tiles where they overhung the pavement were cracked and black, like a row of broken teeth. It might have been the home of an unwise banker, or some hard-up country landowner who had allowed his town house to fall into disrepair. I suppose this was Crassus’s way of showing that he was so fabulously rich, he had no need to keep up a smart appearance, but in that street of millionaires it only drew attention to his wealth, and there was something almost vulgar in its studied lack of vulgarity. The dark little door was constantly opening and shutting as visitors scurried in and out, revealing the extent of the activity within; it put me in mind of a buzzing wasps’ nest, which shows itself only as a tiny hole in the masonry. None of these men was recognizable to me until Julius Caesar stepped out. He did not see me, but walked straight off down the street in the direction of the Forum, trailed by a secretary carrying a document case. Shortly afterwards, the door opened again and Caelius appeared. He paused on the threshold, cupped his hand above his eyes to shield them from the sun, and squinted across the street toward me. I could see at once that he had been out all night as usual, and was not in a good humor at being woken. Thick stubble covered his handsome chin, and he kept sticking out his tongue, swallowing and wincing, as if the taste was too horrible to hold in his mouth. He walked carefully toward me and when he asked me what in the name of the gods I wanted, I blurted out that I needed to borrow some money.

He squinted at me in disbelief. “What for?”

“There is a girl,” I replied helplessly, simply because it was the sort of thing he used to say to me when he wanted money and I had not the wit to come up with anything else. I tried to steer him along the street a little way, anxious that Crassus might come out and see us together. But he shook me off and stood swaying in the gutter.

“A girl?” he repeated incredulously. “You?” And then he began to laugh, but that obviously hurt his head, so he stopped and put his fingers gently to his temple. “If I had any money, Tiro, I should give it to you willingly-it would be a gift, bestowed simply for the pleasure of seeing you with any living person other than Cicero. But that could never happen. You are not the type for girls. Poor Tiro-you are not any kind of type, that I can see.” He peered at me closely. “What do you really need it for?” I could smell the stale wine hot on his breath and could not prevent myself flinching, which he mistook for an admission of guilt. “You are lying,” he said, and then a grin spread slowly across his stubbled face. “Cicero sent you to find out something.”

I pleaded with him to move away from the house, and this time he did. But the motion of walking evidently did not agree with him. He halted again, turned very white, and held up a warning finger. Then his eyes and throat bulged, he gave an alarming groan, and out came such a heavy gush of vomit it reminded me of a chambermaid emptying a bucket out of an upstairs window into the street. (Forgive these details, but the scene just came entirely back into my mind after an absence of sixty years, and I could not help but laugh at the memory.) Anyway, this seemed to act as a purge; his color returned and he became much brighter. He asked me what it was that Cicero wanted to know.

“What do you think?” I replied, a little impatiently.

“I wish I could help you, Tiro,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know I would if I could. It is not nearly as pleasant living with Crassus as it was with Cicero. Old Baldhead is the most awful shit-worse even than my father. He has me learning accountancy all day, and a duller business was never invented, except for commercial law, which was last month’s torture. As for politics, which does amuse me, he is careful to keep me away from all that side of things.”

I tried asking him a few more questions, for instance about Caesar’s visit that morning, but it quickly became clear that he was genuinely ignorant of Crassus’s plans. (I suppose he might have been lying, but given his habitual garrulity, I doubted it.) When I thanked him anyway and turned to leave, he grabbed my elbow. “Cicero must be really desperate,” he said, with an expression of unaccustomed seriousness, “to ask for help from me. Tell him I am sorry to hear it. He is worth a dozen of Crassus and my father put together.”

I DID NOT EXPECT to be seeing Caelius again for a while, and banished him from my mind for the remainder of the day, which was entirely given over to the vote on the bribery bill. Cicero was very active among the tribes in the Forum, going from one to another with his entourage and urging the merits of Figula’s proposal. He was especially pleased to find, under the standard marked VETURIA, several hundred citizens from Nearer Gaul who had responded to his campaign and turned out to vote for the first time. He talked to them for a long while about the importance of stamping out bribery, and as he turned away he had the glint of tears in his eyes. “Poor people,” he muttered, “to have come so far, only to be mocked by Crassus’s money. But if we can get this bill through, I may yet have a weapon to bring the villain down.”

My impression was that his canvassing was proving effective, and that when it came to a vote the lex Figula would pass, for the majority were not corrupt. But simply because a measure is honest and sensible, there is no guarantee that it will be adopted; rather the opposite, in my experience. Early in the afternoon, the populist tribune, Mucius Orestinus-he, you may remember, who had formerly been a client of Cicero’s on a charge of robbery-came to the front of the rostra and denounced the measure as an attack by the aristocrats on the integrity of the plebs. He actually singled out Cicero by name as a man “unfit to be consul”-those were his precise words-who posed as a friend of the people but never did anything for them unless it furthered his own selfish interests. That set half the crowd booing and jeering and the other half-presumably those who were accustomed to selling their votes and wished to continue doing so-yelling their approval.

This was too much for Cicero. He had, after all, only the year before, secured Mucius’s acquittal, and if such a glossy rat as this was leaving his sinking ship, it really must be halfway to the seabed already. He shouldered his way to the steps of the temple, his face red with the heat and with anger, and demanded to be allowed to answer. “Who is paying for your vote, Mucius?” he shouted, but Mucius pretended not to hear. The crowd around us now pointed to Cicero, pushing him forward and calling on the tribune to let him speak. Obviously, that was the last thing Mucius wanted, nor did he want a vote on the bill which he might lose. Raising his arm, he solemnly announced that he was vetoing the legislation, and amid scenes of pandemonium, with scuffles between the rival factions, the lex Figula was lost. Figulus immediately announced that he would summon a meeting of the Senate the following day to debate what should be done.

It was a bitter moment for Cicero, and when at last we reached his house and he was able to close the door on the crowd of his supporters in the street, I thought he might collapse, as he had on the eve of the elections for aedile. For once he was too tired to play with Tullia. And even when Terentia came down with little Marcus, and showed him how the infant had learned to take a wobbly step or two unaided, he did not hoist him into the air, which was his usual greeting, but patted his cheek and squeezed his ear absentmindedly, and then passed on toward his study. He stopped dead in surprise on the threshold, for who should be sitting at his desk but Caelius Rufus.

Laurea, who was waiting just inside the door, apologized to Cicero and explained that he would have told Caelius to wait in the tablinum, like every other visitor, but he had been insistent that his business was so confidential he could not be seen in the public rooms.

“That is all right, Laurea. I am always pleased to see young Caelius. Although I fear,” he added, shaking Caelius’s hand, “that you will find me dull company at the end of a long and dispiriting day.”

“Well, then,” said Caelius, with a grin, “perhaps I might have just the news to cheer you up.”

“Crassus is dead?”

“On the contrary.” Caelius laughed. “Very much alive, and planning a great conference tonight in anticipation of his triumph at the polls.”

“Is he indeed?” said Cicero, and immediately, at this touch of gossip, I saw him start to revive a little, like some wilted flower after a sprinkle of rain. “And who will be at this conference?”

“Catilina. Hybrida. Caesar. I am not sure who else. But the chairs were being set out as I left. I have all this from one of Crassus’s secretaries, who went around the city with the invitations while the popular assembly was in progress.”

“Well, well,” murmured Cicero. “What I would not give to have an ear at that keyhole!”

“But you could have,” responded Caelius. “This meeting is in the chamber where Crassus transacts all his business affairs. Often-but not tonight, I am told by my informant-he likes to keep a secretary close at hand, to make a note of what is said, but without the other person being aware of it. For that purpose he has had a small listening post constructed. It is just a simple cubicle, hidden behind a tapestry. He showed it to me when he was giving me lessons in how to be a man of business.”

“You mean to tell me that Crassus eavesdrops on himself?” asked Cicero in wonder. “What sort of statesman would do that?”

“‘There is many a rash promise made by a man who thinks there are no witnesses’-that was what he said.”

“So you think that you could hide yourself in there, and make an account of what is said?”

“Not me,” scoffed Caelius. “I am no secretary. I was thinking of Tiro here,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder, “with his miraculous shorthand.”

I WOULD LIKE TO BE ABLE TO BOAST that I volunteered readily for this suicidal assignment. But it would not be true. On the contrary, I threw up all manner of practical objections to Caelius’s scheme. How would I enter Crassus’s house undetected? How would I leave it? How would I determine which speaker was which from the babble of voices if I was concealed behind a screen? But to all my questions Caelius had answers. The essential fact was that I was terrified. “What if I am caught,” I protested to Cicero, finally coming to the crux of what really bothered me, “and tortured? I cannot claim to be so courageous that I would not betray you.”

“Cicero can simply deny any knowledge of what you were doing,” said Caelius-unhelpfully, I thought, from my point of view. “Besides, everyone knows that evidence obtained under torture is unreliable.”

“I am beginning to feel faint,” I joked feebly.

“Compose yourself, Tiro,” said Cicero, who had become increasingly excited the more he heard. “There would be no torture and no trial. I would make sure of that. If you were detected, I would negotiate your release, and I would pay any price to see that you were unharmed.” He took both my hands in that sincere double grip of his and looked deep into my eyes. “You are more my second brother than my slave, Tiro, and have been ever since we sat and learned philosophy together in Athens all those years ago-do you remember? I should have discussed your freedom with you before now, but somehow there has always seemed to be some fresh crisis to distract me. So let me tell you now, with Caelius here as my witness, that it is my intention to give you your liberty-yes, and that simple life in the country you have long desired so much. And I see a day when I shall ride over from my place to your little farm, and sit in your garden, and as we watch the sun go down over some distant, dusty olive grove or vineyard, we shall discuss the great adventures we have had together.” He let go of my hands, and this rustic vision trembled on the warm dusky air an instant longer, then faded. “Now,” he said briskly, “this offer of mine is not conditional in any way on your undertaking this mission-let me make that clear: you have earned it many times over already. I would never order you to put yourself in danger. You know how badly my cause stands tonight. You must do whatever you think best.”

Those were very nearly his exact words: how could I forget them?