A Point of Law s-10 Read online

  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 uprigh
t, 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 wa
s 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.