A Point of Law (29 page)

“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?”