Fortune's Favorites (53 page)

He learned from this lesson, however, and changed his mind about how his veterans would be settled on their lands; his later colonies were just that, cohesive nuclei of ex-soldiers able to stick together in the face of bitter local opposition. His one overseas experiment occurred on Corsica, where he set up two separate soldier colonies, thinking to civilize the place and eliminate the Corsican curse, banditry. A futile hope.

The new law courts settled down well, providing the perfect arena for a new legal star, the young man Marcus Tullius Cicero. Quintus Hortensius (who had thriven in the trial atmosphere of the Assemblies) took time to telescope his act down to the intimate size of the open-air courtroom; whereas Cicero found it ideal. At the end of the old year Cicero appeared alone for the defendant in a preliminary hearing before the younger Dolabella, who was praetor urbanus. The object of the hearing was to decide whether the sum of money known as sponsio should be lodged, or whether the case could proceed without it. Cicero's advocate opponents were formidable-Hortensius and Philippus. But he won, Hortensius and Philippus lost, and Cicero embarked upon a forensic career which was to have no equal.

It was in June of the year that Sulla was senior consul with Metellus Pius as his junior consul that a twenty-six-year-old nobleman of patrician family, Marcus Valerius Messala Niger, appealed to his good friend, the twenty-six-year-old Marcus Tullius Cicero, to act on behalf of a man who was Niger's friend as well as his client.

“Sextus Roscius Junior, from Ameria,” said Messala Niger to Cicero. “He's charged with murdering his father.”

“Oh!” said Cicero, astonished. “You're a good advocate, my dear Niger. Why not defend him yourself? Murder is juicy, but very easy, you know. No political overtones.”

“That's what you think,” said Messala Niger grimly. “This case has more political pitfalls than a ditch has sharpened stakes! There is only one man who has a chance of winning, and that man is you, Marcus Tullius. Hortensius recoiled in horror.”

Cicero sat up straighter, a gleam of interest in his dark eyes; he used one of his favorite tricks, dipping his head and shooting Messala Niger a keen glance from under his brows. “A murder case so complicated? How?”

“Whoever takes on the defense of Roscius of Ameria will be taking on Sulla's whole system of proscription,” said Messala Niger. “In order to get Roscius off, it will be necessary to prove that Sulla and his proscriptions are utterly corrupt.”

The generous mouth with the full lower lip pursed into a soundless whistle. “Ye gods!”

“Ye gods, indeed. Still interested?”

“I don't know....” Cicero frowned, at war with himself; preservation of his skin was mandatory, and yet a case so difficult had the potential to win him legal laurels no other kind of case could. “Tell me about it, Niger. Then I'll see.”

Niger settled down to tell his story cleverly enough that Cicero's interest would be stimulated further. “Sextus Roscius is my own age, and I've known him since we were at school together. We both served in our six campaigns under Lucius Caesar and then Sulla in Campania. Roscius's father owned most of Ameria, including no less than thirteen river frontage properties along the Tiber-fabulously rich! Roscius is his only son. But there are also two cousins, sons of his brother, who are the real villains of the piece. Old Roscius went to Rome on a visit at the beginning of the year, and was murdered in Rome. I don't know whether the cousins did it, nor does Roscius. Probable, but not necessary.” Messala Niger grimaced. “The news of the father's murder came to Ameria through an agent of the cousins, certainly. And the most suspicious part about it is that this agent didn't tell poor Roscius at all! Instead he told the cousins, who hatched a plot to filch all the property off my friend Roscius.”

“I think I begin to see,” said Cicero, whose mind was razor-keen when it came to the criminal perfidies of men.

“Volaterrae had just revolted, and Sulla was there conducting the initial stages of the siege. With him was Chrysogonus.”

There was no need to inform Cicero who was this Chrysogonus; all of Rome knew the infamous bureaucrat in charge of the lists, the books, and all the data pertaining to Sulla's proscriptions.

“The cousins rode to Volaterrae and were granted an interview with Chrysogonus, who was willing to make a deal with them-but for a huge price. He agreed to forge Roscius's dead father's name on one of the old proscription lists. He would then 'happen to see' a routine report on the murder, and pretend to 'remember' that this name was a proscribed one. That is what transpired. Roscius's father's properties- worth a cool six million-were immediately put up for auction by Chrysogonus, who bought them all himself-for two thousand, if you please.”

“I love this villain!” cried Cicero, looking as alert as a huntsman's hound.

“Well, I do not! I loathe the man!” said Messala Niger.

“Yes, yes, he's loathsome! But what happened next?”

“All of this occurred before Roscius even knew his father was dead. The first intimation he had was when Cousin Two appeared bearing Chrysogonus's proscription order, and evicted Roscius from his father's properties. Chrysogonus kept ten of the thirteen estates for himself and installed Cousin Two on them as his live-in manager and agent. The other three estates Chrysogonus signed over to Cousin One as outright payment. The blow for poor Roscius was a twin one, of course-not only did he learn that his father had been proscribed months before, but also that he was murdered.”

“Did he believe this tissue of lies?” asked Cicero.

“Absolutely. Why should he not have? Everyone with two sesterces to rub together expected to find himself named on a proscription list, whether he lived in Rome or in Ameria. Roscius just believed! And got out.”

“Who smelled the rotten carcass?”

“The elders of the town,” said Messala Niger. “A son is never as sure of his father's worth and nature as his father's friends are, which is not illogical. A man's friends know him without the concomitant emotional distortions suffered by his son.”

“True,” said Cicero, who didn't get on with his own father.

“So the friends of the old man held a conference, and agreed that there had not been a Marian, Cinnan or Carboan bone in the old man's entire body. They agreed to ride to Volaterrae and seek an audience with Sulla himself, beg him to reverse the proscription and allow Roscius to inherit. They gathered up masses of evidence and set off at once.”

“Accompanied by which cousin?” asked Cicero shrewdly.

“Quite correct,” said Messala Niger, smiling. “They were joined by Cousin One, who actually had the temerity to assume command of the mission! In the meantime Cousin Two rode at the gallop for Volaterrae to warn Chrysogonus what was in the wind. Thus it was that the deputation never got to see Sulla. It was waylaid by Chrysogonus, who took all the details-and all the masses of evidence!-from them, and promised them that he would see the Dictator reverse his proscription. Don't worry! was his cry. Everything will be right and Roscius will inherit.”

“Did no one suspect that he was talking to the real owner of ten of the thirteen estates?'' asked Cicero incredulously.

“Not a one, Marcus Tullius.”

“It's a sign of the times, isn't it?”

“I fear so.”

“Go on, please.”

“Two months went by. At the end of them old man Roscius's friends realized that they had been neatly tricked, for no order rescinding the proscription came through, and Cousin One and Cousin Two were now known to be living on the confiscated property as if they owned it. A few enquiries revealed that Cousin One was the outright owner of three, and Chrysogonus of the other ten. That terrified everyone, as everyone assumed Sulla was a part of the villainy.”

“Do you believe he was?” asked Cicero.

Messala Niger thought long, finally shook his head. “No, Cicero, I doubt it.”

“Why?” asked the born lawyer.

“Sulla is a hard man. Frankly, he terrifies me. They say that in his youth he murdered women for their money, that he got into the Senate over their bodies. Yet I knew him slightly when I was in the army-too junior to be on close terms, of course, but he was always around, always busy, always in control of the job-and he struck me as aristocratically scrupulous. Do you know what I mean by that?”

Cicero felt a tinge of red creeping under his skin, but pretended he was at ease. Did he know what the patrician nobleman Marcus Valerius Messala Niger meant by aristocratic scrupulousness? Oh, yes! No one understood better than Cicero, who was a New Man, and envied patricians like Messala Niger and Sulla very much.

“I think so,” he said.

“He has a dark side to him, Sulla. He'd probably kill you or me without a qualm if it suited him. But he would have a patrician's reasons for killing us. He wouldn't do it because he coveted thirteen lush properties on the banks of the Tiber. If it occurred to him to go to an auction of proscribed property and he was able to pick up some very cheap estates, he would. I don't say he wouldn't. But conspire to enrich himself or his freedman in a dishonorable way when nothing as vital as his career was at stake? No. I don't think so. His honor matters to him. I see it in his laws, which I think are honorable laws. I may not agree with him that the tribunes of the plebs must be legislated out of all their power, but he's done it legally and openly. He's a Roman patrician.”

“So Sulla doesn't know,” said Cicero thoughtfully.

“I believe that to be the truth.”

“Pray continue, Marcus Valerius.”

“About the time that the elders of Ameria began to think that Sulla was a part of the conspiracy, my friend Roscius became more vocal. The poor fellow really was utterly flattened for months, you know. It took a long time for him to say anything. But the moment he did begin to say things, there were several attempts on his life. So two months ago he fled to Rome and sought shelter with his father's old friend, the retired Vestal Metella Balearica. You know, the sister of Metellus Nepos. His other sister was the wife of Appius Claudius Pulcher-she died giving birth to that frightful monster of a child, Publius Clodius.”

“Get on with it, Niger,” said Cicero gently.

“The fact that Roscius knew such powerful people as Metellus Nepos and a retired Vestal Virgin of the Caecilii Metelli gave the two cousins some sleepless nights, it would appear. They began to believe that Roscius just might manage to see Sulla in person. But they didn't dare murder Roscius, not without risking being found out if the Caecilii Metelli insisted upon an enquiry. So they decided it was better to destroy Roscius's reputation, by fabricating evidence that he had murdered his own father. Do you know a fellow called Erucius?”

Cicero's face twisted in contempt. “Who doesn't? He's a professional accusator.”

“Well, he came forward to charge Roscius with the murder of his father. The witnesses to old Roscius's death were his slaves, and of course they had been sold along with the rest of his estate to Chrysogonus. Therefore there was no likelihood that they would appear to tell the real story! And Erucius is convinced that no advocate of ability will take on Roscius's defense because every advocate will be too afraid of Sulla to dare say damning things about the proscription process.”

“Then Erucius had better look to his laurels,” said Cicero briskly. “I'll defend your friend Roscius gladly, Niger.”

“Aren't you worried that you'll offend Sulla?”

“Pooh! Rubbish! Nonsense! I know exactly how to do it--and do it, I will! I predict, in fact, that Sulla will thank me,” said Cicero blithely.

Though other cases had been heard in the new Murder Court, the trial of Sextus Roscius of Ameria on a charge of parricide created a huge stir. Sulla's law stipulated that it be presided over by an ex-aedile, but in that year it was under the presidency of a praetor, Marcus Fannius. Fearlessly Cicero aired the story of Roscius in his actio prima, and left no juror or spectator in any doubt that his main defense was the corruption behind Sulla's proscriptions.

Then came the final day of the trial, when Cicero himself was to give his final address to the jury. And there, seated on his ivory curule chair to one side of the president's tribunal, was Lucius Cornelius Sulla.

The presence of the Dictator dismayed Cicero not a jot; instead, it pushed him to hitherto undreamed-of heights of eloquence and brilliance.

“There are three culprits in this hideous affair,” he said, declaiming not to the jury, but to Sulla. “The cousins Titus Roscius Capito and Titus Roscius Magnus are obvious, but actually secondary. What they did, they could not have done without the proscriptions. Without Lucius Cornelius...... Chrysogonus,” he said, pausing so long between the second and the third names that even Messala Niger began to think he might say, “Sulla.”

On went Cicero. “Who exactly is this 'golden child'? This Chrysogonus? Let me tell you! He is a Greek. There is no disgrace in that. He is an ex-slave. There is no disgrace in that. He is a freedman. There is no disgrace in that. He is the client of Lucius Cornelius Sulla. There is no disgrace in that. He is rich. There is no disgrace in that. He is powerful. There is no disgrace in that. He is the administrator of the proscriptions. There is no disgrace in that-ooops! Ooops, ooops! I beg your collective pardons, Conscript Fathers! You see what happens when one bumps along in a rhetorical rut for too long? I got carried away! I could have gone on saying 'There is no disgrace in that' for hours! And oh, what a rhetorical ravine I would have dug for myself!”

Fairly launched, Cicero paused to revel consciously in what he was doing. “Let me say it again. He is the administrator of the proscriptions. And in that there is a monumental, a gigantic, an Olympian disgrace! Do all of you see this splendid man on his curule chair-this model of every Roman virtue, this general without rival, this lawmaker who has broken new bounds of statesmanship, this brilliant jewel in the crown of the illustrious gens Cornelia? Do all of you see him? Sitting so calmly, Zeus-like in his detachment? Do all of you see him? Then look well!”

Now Cicero turned away from Sulla to glare at the jury from under his brows, a rather sticklike figure, so thin was he even in his toga; and yet he seemed to tower, to have the thews of Hercules and the majesty of Apollo.