by Randy Singer
I was ready for a bigger stage. Perhaps it was time to take my place in the sun.
CHAPTER 32
The wind bit through my cloak that night on the way to the estate of Lucius Apronius for dinner. He lived four miles outside the city, not far from my childhood home.
His house was warm and comfortable, the food delicious and exquisitely prepared. Apronius was a gracious host but insisted that we should wait until after dinner to talk about his upcoming maiestas trial. He looked a little like the statues I had seen of Cicero—receding gray hair, deep-set eyes framed by bushy gray eyebrows, and a mouth that fell into a natural frown. He asked about my family and my time in Greece and Judea.
I was struck by the common decency of the man. He treated his servants with the kind of respect seldom seen in Rome. He looked them directly in the eye and addressed them by name. At one point, his grandchildren raced into the banquet room and interrupted us, a serious breach of etiquette. He apologized but didn’t seem at all embarrassed. He introduced his wife, who was right on their heels, and for the next several minutes I had a rather pleasant conversation with the grandchildren. I wondered what would happen to them if Apronius were convicted.
After dinner, he insisted that we go for a walk in his torchlit gardens. “The brisk air will wake us up.”
Brisk? October was brisk; February was biting! We put on our cloaks, and he showed me around the gardens, his hands behind his back as we walked side by side. He glanced up at the stars and waxed philosophical.
“Theophilus, we’re not living in the Rome of my childhood. Augustus Caesar gave lip service to the Republic while slowly stripping the Senate of all but ceremonial power. Tiberius has taken the next step, reducing our once-august body to a pack of fools anxious to curry favor with an emperor who has not even set foot in this city for ten years. But do you know what disappoints me most?”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I was already a little uncomfortable with a client so freely confessing his disdain for Caesar. If he was willing to criticize the emperor in front of me, a young advocate whom he hardly knew, what had he said to his friends in the Senate?
On the other hand, I admired his frankness, a character trait sadly lacking in Rome.
“I’m most disappointed by my fellow senators. We fall all over each other making resolutions to impress the emperor. We grovel to Macro, commander of the Praetorian Guard. We turn on each other and accuse each other of thinking bad thoughts about the mighty Tiberius. Whatever happened to the dignity of a senator?”
“I don’t know,” I said lamely.
He stopped and turned. He looked for a long moment at his house, perhaps thinking about his wife, children, and grandchildren. The man had a lot at stake.
“If you decide not to take my case, I won’t blame you,” he said. “I’m up against Caepio Crispinus, and he hasn’t lost a maiestas trial yet. And I’m not willing to lie.”
Seneca had already filled me in on the specific charges. Apronius had been invited by one of his close friends from the Senate, Papius Mutilus, to a lavish dinner. With the wine flowing and the two of them alone, Mutilus had started complaining bitterly about Tiberius. The emperor was a hothead. He didn’t have the brains to govern. He was nothing like Augustus Caesar. He had conquered no new territories. And what had he built?
Apronius had taken up the cause, reciting his own litany of complaints. He suggested the Senate should take action. Rome would be better served if Tiberius were no longer Princeps. Even better if the Republic were restored.
The next day another senator approached Apronius, voicing his own disgust with Tiberius. This senator, a man named Junius Otho, served as a praetor in the law courts where I practiced. He claimed that Tiberius had overstepped his legal authority and that the emperor’s paranoia was ruining the country.
Thinking he had found another ally, Apronius suggested that he, Otho, and Mutilus get together and talk about actions the senators could take.
Unfortunately, it was all a setup. Both Mutilus and Otho reported their conversations to Caepio Crispinus. Mutilus and Otho claimed that they revered Tiberius and were just trying to test the loyalty of Apronius. Charges were filed, and the outcome seemed sure. It was rumored that the three men involved in the prosecution of Apronius had already decided the best way to apportion his estate.
“What’s the worst thing you actually said about Tiberius?” I asked. I was shivering—partially from the cold and partially from being so nervous about the prospect of representing a man who had freely insulted the emperor.
Apronius gave me the sly smile of someone slightly amused at his own hubris. “I may have mentioned the case of Plautius and the coins Plautius took into the privy,” Apronius said. “I may have said that in my own privy, I have Caesar’s image engraved on the end of the sponge we use when we finish our business.”
This coaxed a smile from me as well. “You told the other senators that?”
“I probably used a little coarser language. But that’s the essence of what I said.”
There were a thousand compelling reasons why I should have stayed away from the defense of Apronius. We couldn’t possibly win. And I wasn’t willing to take Seneca’s advice and handle the case just for the notoriety. I knew myself too well for that. If I got involved, I would go to every extreme to prevail. Serving as Apronius’s advocate would place me firmly in the camp opposed to Caesar. Maybe Seneca was right and the tide was turning, but if it didn’t turn fast enough, I could soon be accused of treason myself and washed out to sea with the rest of the traitors.
A year ago, Tiberius had ordered that everyone in prison convicted of treason be piled in the street and killed at one time. Those who saw the spectacle talked about the cries of agony as the prisoners were speared through by the Praetorian Guards. They were left to rot there for seven days, their bodies devoured by wild dogs. Then, at the order of Tiberius, their remains were dragged by hooks to the Tiber River and flung into the current. Loved ones and relatives were prohibited from rescuing the remains and giving the men proper funerals.
My knees nearly buckled at the thought of it.
But fear is not the most powerful motivation.
In a strange way, the courage of Apronius reminded me of the courage of the Nazarene. Both men faced powerful and corrupt accusers without flinching. Both had been betrayed. Both seemed to answer to a higher call.
I had turned my back on an innocent man once. The guilt of doing so had dogged me for the last two years. Having come face-to-face with my own cowardice, I had a strong desire for a second chance to prove my valor. Perhaps that’s why I admired men of courage so much—because I had such a hard time mustering it myself.
I left the house of Apronius late at night, the moon lighting my way back to Rome. I had a bag full of money—the largest retainer I had ever charged a client. I held my head high because I knew I was doing the right thing.
But I also had an awful feeling in the pit of my stomach. Between the wrath of Caesar and the stubbornness of my new client, there would not be much room for error.
CHAPTER 33
I regretted my decision almost immediately. Word spread quickly in the tongue-wagging city of Rome, and I soon became infamous—a hero to the freedman but a pariah to the senatorial class. Details about Apronius’s snide criticisms of Tiberius had already leaked out. Under their breath, Roman citizens had dubbed the case “The Sponge Trial.”
Nobody in Rome believed that Apronius had a chance at acquittal. The common people loved his audacity. But they also knew there was a reason such courage was in short supply in Rome. Most men who possessed it were already dead.
When I went to the baths, the other aristocrats treated me as if I had a contagious disease, granting me a wide berth. Seneca might have been right that the citizens of Rome were sick of the treason trials. And maybe history would vindicate us. But at this point, none of the aristocrats seemed willing to take that bet.
There was one small
benefit from my newfound notoriety. I had been proceeding toward marriage with a woman from a respectable equestrian family who was even-tempered and as intellectually curious as me. But there was no flame in our relationship. Once it became public that I would be representing Apronius, this woman and her family decided we would not be a good match. Rather than being distressed, I found myself relieved. Marrying her in the first place would have been a huge mistake.
During the three weeks leading up to the trial, I might have withdrawn from the case had I truly believed that doing so would unravel the damage to my reputation. But in a moment of empathy and courage, I had made a decision that I could no longer undo. The only choice now was whether to proceed as Seneca had suggested—represent Apronius halfheartedly with an eye toward losing—or do everything within my power to win.
Five days before the trial of Apronius, I found myself sharing a meal with Pontius Pilate and Procula in the Aventine Hill section of the city. Though I couldn’t really afford a night off this close to the trial, I couldn’t bring myself to turn down the invitation from the former prefect of Judea. Since returning to Jerusalem with the malfeasance charges pending against him, Pilate had become a virtual outcast in Roman society. Right now, more than anything else, he needed a friend.
Pilate was a mere shadow of the man I had known two years earlier. He still looked the same—the bald head and oval face, the tanned and weathered skin, the close-set eyes, and the forehead that so quickly furrowed into a show of displeasure. He was still in the same excellent physical shape he maintained in Caesarea. But after spending a few hours with him, I could tell that he was a far different man emotionally.
All of his smug self-assuredness had vanished. He was despondent throughout dinner, despite the best efforts of Procula and me to cheer him up. We tried to get him reminiscing about our time in Judea, but the truth was that Pilate and I were both trying to forget those days.
He had obviously been drinking even before I arrived, and he continued nonstop through the dinner. The more wine he consumed, the more he turned inward, though he did ask a lot of questions about Apronius’s trial. Perhaps he saw it as a preview of his own trial, scheduled to take place a few weeks later.
By the last course, Pilate was slurring his speech. He fell asleep before dinner was over. Procula apologized for her husband and offered to walk me out.
We were standing on the front portico when she asked the question that I sensed she had been waiting to ask all night. “Did you hear about Cornelius?”
“That he became a follower of the Nazarene?”
“Yes.” She looked down for a moment as if trying to judge how far she should take this. “Did you hear how it happened?”
“Not the details.”
“Would it interest you?”
“Sure.”
She told the story with a certain sense of awe in her voice. It started when Cornelius had a vision. That led to a meeting with a Jew named Peter, who told Cornelius about Jesus and his miracles. Peter described the crucifixion of Jesus and how he had supposedly come back to life on the third day and been seen by many witnesses.
“Cornelius told me about this himself,” Procula said. “Peter baptized Cornelius and a few of his soldiers, and they became followers of the Way.”
“I heard the talk about Jesus coming back from the dead even before I left Caesarea,” I said. “At the time, I wrote it off as just another Jewish myth. Still do.”
Procula considered the matter. “All I know is that the face of Jesus is the same face I saw in the temple of Aesculapius when I was healed. I know Jesus was innocent of the charges against him, and I warned Pilate not to have him crucified. He didn’t listen, and we’ve had nothing but trouble since.”
“I regretted that decision too,” I admitted. “It’s one of many things I would do differently if I ever had the chance.”
The conversation seemed to have run its course, and we both said our good-byes. I was halfway down the steps when Procula stopped me.
“Theophilus?”
I turned and looked at her.
“My husband really needs help,” she said, her voice brittle. “He doesn’t stand a chance at trial without an advocate who knows what he’s doing. He’s approached a few others but they all have their excuses. . . .” Her voice trailed off.
I sensed where this was going. It was the last thing in the world I needed. Another unwinnable case in front of the Senate. Another stubborn man’s life in my hands.
“Would you take his case, Theophilus?” Procula asked.
I hesitated. “Does he even want me to represent him?” From what I had heard, Pilate planned on representing himself. He had been putting on a brave public face. He had been justified in every one of his actions, he claimed. He would proudly explain himself to the full Senate and take whatever sentence they dished out.
She sighed, her eyes fixed on the pavement. “We talked about it a few nights ago. Pilate said he would never ask you; he doesn’t want to drag you into this. He doesn’t want the claims being made against him to rub off on you.”
I couldn’t tell whether Procula was making this up or not. Truthfully, it didn’t seem like something Pilate would say, at least not the Pilate I knew. He never seemed to worry about anybody but himself. Maybe somehow facing these charges had changed him.
“Tell him I’ll be back to meet with him after I finish the trial of Apronius,” I said. “But, Procula, if he wants me to represent him, he’ll have to ask me himself.”
“I’ll tell him,” Procula promised. “But some people have a harder time asking for help than others.”
CHAPTER 34
In putting together Apronius’s defense, I first tried to draw on my vast knowledge of Cicero. The man had been Rome’s greatest orator and had stood undaunted in the face of overwhelming odds. But that’s not where I ultimately found my inspiration.
My dinner with Pilate had drawn my thoughts back to the Nazarene. Something about the way he had seemed resigned to his fate stirred me. The way he had lectured Pilate about destiny. “You say that I am a king. I was born for this, and for this I have come into the world: to testify to the truth.” Jesus had stared Pilate down, despite the fact that Pilate had the authority to order his execution. What was it the Nazarene had said? “You have no power except that given you from above.”
I mulled that over for a moment, marveling not just at the supreme self-assurance of Jesus but at his assertion that Pilate had no jurisdiction over him.
That’s when it hit me. A way to defend Apronius that might actually work!
I wasted no time before getting to work on my new theory, toiling late into the night. The next day, I had Apronius pull records from prior treason trials. I started going for long walks up and down the Seven Hills of Rome, shivering against the cold, practicing my argument. Those closest to me must have thought I had gone a little mad—walking around, talking to myself, not bothering to shave.
Two days before the trial, I practiced my argument in front of Seneca. When I finished, he leaned back, crossed his legs, and rubbed his chin. I could tell he was deep in thought. His eyes looked past me as he watched the scene play out in his mind.
“It’s brilliant,” he said. “It just might work.”
He coached me on some minor adjustments. A voice inflection. The way I held my hands. A need to pause or a change in the wording of a few sentences. But he didn’t touch the substance of my speech.
Before I left, he grabbed me by both arms and told me he was proud of me. “I always knew you had this in you,” he said. “When you talk to those senators, remember that they are merely men, the same as we are. But maybe you can spark them to rise above the petty jealousies that have inflicted that group recently. And even if you don’t, you have made your teacher proud.”
The wave of optimism I felt coursing through my body that night all but disappeared by the morning of the trial. My toga was freshly washed, but it was the toga of an equestrian. M
y entire defense was contained in the small box that held my wax notebooks with my closing argument and a few exhibits I intended to introduce. Later that morning, I would walk to the Senate alone, without even a servant trailing behind me.
Others would arrive in grander style. Crispinus would be carried to the Senate in a litter with a huge entourage of servants and well-wishers following along. His very passing would create a stir on the streets of Rome. His entrance into the Senate chamber would be followed by the glad-handing of other senators as they masked their animosity toward him with nervous smiles. Junius Otho, the praetor who would testify against my client, would have lictors precede his entourage, announcing his arrival. Mutilus would merit the same kind of reception.
Thinking about it, I lost my appetite. My stomach was in such an uproar that I decided to skip breakfast and head straight to the Senate. My nerves were on edge, and it would do no good to try to rehearse my argument again.
But just as I was putting on my cloak, help arrived in the form of a loud and insistent knock.
I opened the door, and he was standing there grinning. He was taller now—I no longer looked down on him. But it didn’t seem like he’d gained a single pound since childhood. He was all skin and bones, elbows and knees, and his cloak hung on a rail-thin frame. Somehow, his bone-sharp face had retained its boyish innocence.
“Marcus!”
“I thought you might need somebody to carry your bag,” he said.
We embraced and patted each other on the back. Marcus explained that he was a physician practicing medicine in Sicily. But when a friend needs help, he said, you drop everything and come.
“I can’t believe you’re here,” I said.
“You never could stay out of trouble.”
