The Advocate

by Randy Singer

  You won’t want to miss this one. Maybe I’ll ask for a battle to the death between Mansuetus and Lucian to see who is telling the truth. Perhaps I’ll suggest that Flavia carry water in a sieve. Maybe it was a different Vestal who was caught with Mansuetus.

  I stopped at the market and hinted at the same things. I seeded every rumor I could think of, fueling a fire of speculation about the trial that had already been blazing throughout Rome.

  An hour before the trial I returned to my home exhausted. Even without my meager efforts, the judgment hall in the Imperial Palace probably would have been packed. But I was hopeful that the crowd would spill out through the great bronze doors onto the portico and down the street. I was hoping the crowd would rival the throngs that had waited breathlessly outside the Senate for Caligula’s first speech. The emperor might be a madman, but he wanted to be a popular one. Today, he would have his chance.

  The quickest route from my house to the Imperial Palace on the Palatine Hill did not go through the Forum, so I took a detour. It was a perfect autumn day. The air was cool enough to be refreshing but not biting. The leaves had turned from a glossy green to tinges of brown and yellow. Pedestrians didn’t kick up dust like they did in the summer, and a breeze from the northwest shook a few leaves loose and gave flocks of birds a pleasant ride.

  I took my time walking the length of the Forum, greeting people I knew with a big smile, telling them they didn’t want to miss the grand trial that would start in about thirty minutes. I urged them to bring their friends. When I left the area, I had at least fifty people in tow.

  Word spread quickly, and I also had human nature working in my favor. The Romans loved a good show! By the time I started climbing the hill to reach the Imperial Palace, there were hundreds of people behind me.

  I could have saved my energy. When I turned a corner halfway up the cobblestone path, I caught my first glimpse of the crowd already waiting. I could barely see the huge portico that formed the entrance to Caligula’s palace. There were thousands of people spread out in front of me. They were all pushing and cramming as close as possible to the entrance of the great judgment hall. I could sense the excitement in the crisp autumn air. I tried to squeeze my way through, announcing that I was the advocate for Mansuetus and Flavia, but it was slow going.

  About halfway to the steps, two gigantic men blocked my way. When they learned that I was the advocate for Mansuetus, they grasped my forearm and thumped me on the back. They introduced themselves as gladiators from Mansuetus’s school and decided they would serve as my personal escort. They cleared a path through the rest of the spectators, shouting at people to move aside, pushing them out of the way if they didn’t part quickly enough. Common citizens slapped my shoulders and wished me luck. Some reached out to touch the gladiators, and I marveled at the popularity these men had.

  The judgment hall itself was crammed with spectators, though the Praetorian Guard had wisely limited the number they let inside. As an advocate, I had never tried a case before the judgment seat of Caesar.

  The hall itself was at least five times as big as the Stone Pavement Courtyard back in Jerusalem. Marble, gold, exquisitely carved statues, and massive pillars created an imposing setting. It was at least four hundred feet from the entrance of the judgment hall to the dais where the judgment seat was located. There would be no fewer than ten assessores standing behind Caligula, ready to provide advice. Larger-than-life statues of the great Roman emperors lined the front of the hall. A wraparound balcony was filled with trumpeters who would announce the entrance of the great Caesar. The dais that held Caligula’s seat was thirty feet tall. Everything about the place was designed to make the accused seem small and the emperor seem powerful.

  It was doing a pretty good job on me.

  A large semicircle of empty floor space in front of the judgment seat had been cleared by the Praetorian Guards, who stood watch, lining the perimeter of that space, using their large rectangular shields to keep the crowd at bay. I was allowed past the line of guards and took a seat facing the great platform where Caligula would sit. Caepio Crispinus, with his smooth gray hair and handsome smile, was already in place on the other side. I noticed that even Crispinus appeared to be nervous, fingering through the papyrus rolls he had brought, fretfully glancing behind him at his witnesses.

  I went over and greeted him. “I brought a few of my friends,” I said.

  Crispinus smiled. “One of my friends will be coming too. When he does, he’ll sit up there on the dais.”

  At noon, there was a commotion outside as a group of men forced their way through the crowd at the huge open doors of the judgment hall. Mansuetus was surrounded by at least twenty fully armed members of the Praetorian Guard. His ankles and wrists were shackled. He shuffled slowly to the front of the hall.

  Behind him, with a soldier on each side, came Flavia. She was chained in the same manner, but at least they had given her a clean white robe, though her jagged haircut, sore-infested skin, and large almond eyes made her look crazed.

  As the two of them took their places at the front, the crowd on the perimeter began to clap. The applause rippled out the doors, down the portico, and across the great lawns surrounding the palace, where it erupted into a sustained roar. When the initial noise began to subside, a chant of “Man-sue-tus!” took its place and echoed back inside, resounding off the stone walls of the hall.

  The big man, dressed only in a tunic, lifted his head and smiled.

  The guards made the two prisoners stand in the middle of the floor at the foot of the great dais on which Caligula would sit. A row of soldiers stood at attention behind them. This was where Flavia and Mansuetus would remain throughout the trial—where everyone could stare at their backs and try to gauge their reactions.

  Flavia looked over her shoulder and caught my eye. She nodded a thank-you, and I nodded back. She was standing just a few feet away from her lover, and I could tell she desperately wanted to reach out and touch him.

  Mansuetus did not look good. His right foot and ankle were swollen and discolored. It didn’t take a doctor to know that he might be facing amputation even if he were somehow acquitted.

  But there was no time to worry about that now. The trumpets blared, filling the hall with sharp notes that made my ears ring. The shrill sound of the flutes followed. A lictor cried out, and the giant gold-plated doors behind the gilded judgment seat opened.

  In walked Caligula, dressed in a purple robe, a laurel wreath on his head. He moved to the front of the platform and surveyed the packed hall.

  He had several assessores standing right behind him. My mind flashed back to the trial of the Nazarene. So this was what it felt like to be on the other side. I feared my knees would buckle.

  “Let the charges be read and the proceedings begin!” Caligula said.

  A lictor read the charges, and the emperor took his seat. Unlike the prefects in the provinces, the mighty Caesar did not stand during trials.

  He nodded to Crispinus.

  “I’ll hear from the prosecution first.”

  CHAPTER 52

  Caepio Crispinus rose from his seat and glared at the prisoners. “Becoming a Vestal Virgin is the highest honor we bestow on women,” he said, his voice gravely serious. “They are the keepers of the eternal flame, the sacred guardians of the hearth for all of Rome. In exchange, they take a sacred vow.”

  He turned to Caligula. “Your Excellency, this woman swore on the name of the divine Caesar that she would remain chaste while she performed her duties.

  “In our history, the Vestals have understood that thirty years of chastity is a small price to pay for the exalted position they hold. The best seats at the games. A central role in our sacrifices. They are the keepers of our most important documents, including your will, Most Excellent Caesar. And they even hold, as this woman has so vividly demonstrated, the power over life and death.”

  Crispinus stalked the prisoners as he talked, circling them as he made his arg
ument. This would be Crispinus at his narcissistic best, the courtroom as theater, the prosecutor serving as Rome’s star actor. No rhetorical flourish would go untapped. The air would be jabbed by his finger; his right arm would sweep in a broad, flamboyant arc; his voice would go from a whisper to the sound of thunder in an instant.

  “When Apronius was scheduled to die because of scandalous remarks he made about your grandfather, the shadow of Flavia fell on him, and he was immediately freed. That is an incredible amount of power for one person to have.” I could see the resentment still smoldering in Crispinus’s eyes. All of Apronius’s fortune had been snatched away from him in an instant by Flavia’s actions.

  “In light of what we know today, does anybody really believe that meeting was accidental—the Virgin’s crossing of paths with Apronius? If she is acquitted today, how many more traitors will she pardon by the same type of unconscionable action?”

  I noticed that Crispinus was spewing most of his venom at Flavia, and the freedmen lining the back walls were already beginning to grumble. Like me, they probably sensed that the attacks were having their intended effect. Caligula sat still as a statue, his eyes following the pacing Crispinus, though occasionally he cast a disdainful look at the prisoners.

  “As Your Excellency well knows, because a Vestal is married to the state, sexual relations with any citizen of the state is the same as incest. And incest has always been punishable by execution.

  “Now the word of a Vestal is sacrosanct,” Crispinus admitted. “But there are exceptions. When Flavia testifies in her own defense—if she testifies in her own defense—her words must be viewed with the greatest suspicion. Especially when Your Excellency will hear the sworn testimony of another Vestal, the matron of the Vestals, who will tell us that Flavia was not at the House of Vestal on the night in question. Instead, she was with this man, breaking her vows on the banks of the Tiber River.”

  As I watched, I worried about Mansuetus’s smoldering rage. His muscles flexed each time Crispinus moved closer. The enormous trapezius muscles would go taut, the fists would clench, the calves tighten. I prayed he wouldn’t strike. I knew that Crispinus would like nothing better.

  “We know that Your Excellency saw something in the eyes of Mansuetus the day of Drusilla’s games when his gaze lingered on Flavia. Something told Your Excellency that there was more to his look than simply admiring the beauty of the Vestal. And so you asked Lucian Aurelius, a commander in the Praetorian Guard, to wait outside the House of Vestal that night and follow Flavia if she left. Under oath, he will describe what he saw when he did so.

  “Mansuetus has fought with incredible valor in the arena. He is rightly adored by much of Rome. But like all men, he has a weakness.”

  At this, Crispinus stopped talking and walked directly in front of Flavia, halting inches from her face. I noticed Mansuetus, standing next to her, raise his shackled wrists to his waist. The back of his neck turned dark.

  “Shamelessly, this woman took advantage of that weakness. Flaunting her beauty, seducing her prey, beckoning Mansuetus into her web. She was supposed to be a mother for Rome, but instead, she became Rome’s whore!”

  The words were still on Crispinus’s lips when Mansuetus lunged at him, driving Crispinus to the floor. Mansuetus tried to loop his arms over Crispinus’s head so he could strangle the man with the chains binding his own wrists. But Crispinus curled into a ball, tucking his head. In a flash, a dozen guards jumped on Mansuetus as if Crispinus had told them in advance that this moment might happen.

  I leaped to my feet and tried to join the melee but was pushed back by some of the guards. Others pulled the two men apart, and I noticed that a gash had opened on Crispinus’s forehead where he had struck the marble floor.

  The crowd surged forward but was held in check by the shields and spears of the Praetorian Guards.

  In the chaos, Caligula shouted, demanding that the judgment hall come to order.

  When things eventually settled down, Mansuetus was surrounded by six guards, one with a knife at the gladiator’s neck. His chest was heaving, his muscles straining. His eyes were still fixed on Crispinus, a murderous stare that sent chills down my spine.

  “For the rest of the proceedings, the prisoner will kneel,” Caligula ordered.

  Mansuetus didn’t budge.

  Caligula nodded at a guard located on the platform. He walked down, carrying a large wooden club. “Break his knees,” the emperor said.

  There were shouts of protest from the crowd, and I thought the entire place would erupt in a riot. I looked behind me and saw people pressing forward, raising their fists, ready to make a mad rush to save their hero. They would die at the hands of the soldiers if they tried.

  But just as the guard prepared to take a swing with the club, Mansuetus dropped to his knees and hung his head. One of the guards looped a rope around the gladiator’s neck. Two other guards, one on each side of Mansuetus, more than an arm’s length away, held the ends of the rope. Another guard stood behind Mansuetus, his sword drawn.

  The commander gave a simple order to all three. “If he tries to move, kill him.”

  Crispinus straightened his toga, dabbed at the blood on his forehead with a cloth that had been handed to him, and returned to his seat. The crowd began to chant the name of Mansuetus, and Caligula demanded silence. The soldiers roughed up a few of the men who had started the chant, and the noise died down.

  Finally Caligula turned to me. “You may begin your defense.”

  CHAPTER 53

  “I was going to suggest a gladiatorial death match between Mansuetus and Caepio Crispinus to decide this case,” I said, “but I see that’s already been tried.”

  Caligula didn’t smile, and I didn’t expect him to. I just wanted to demonstrate a little irreverence to signal that I was not afraid. Even though, in truth, I felt like I could barely stand.

  I tried to imagine myself on the banks of the Aegean. I took a deep breath so I could use my diaphragm and better project my voice.

  “Our case is simple,” I said. “The charges are false. My clients are innocent. Lucian Aurelius is mistaken.”

  I moved forward so that I was even with Flavia and Mansuetus. I had no intention of turning this into theater the way Crispinus had. My approach would be far more subtle.

  “Mansuetus will testify that he did not have an improper relationship with Flavia. I would respectfully suggest to Caesar that this man has proven his valor and that his word can be trusted.”

  I turned and made a sweeping gesture toward the crowd. “He has no shortage of fans. I am sure that many of the unmarried women here would be happy to spend a night with Mansuetus. Does Your Excellency really believe that somebody this popular needs to chase a Vestal Virgin?”

  The question was really about Caesar, not Mansuetus. But the implications seemed to be lost on the emperor.

  “Caepio Crispinus has the audacity to call this man a liar,” I said, feigning disbelief. “A man who has already earned the respect of all of Rome.”

  Mansuetus was still on his knees, but he lifted his head and looked at Caesar. Caligula had already shown he was not afraid to take on the popular gladiator. But I was hoping that Caligula would at least understand that if he freed both prisoners it would boost his popularity.

  “We will not dispute, Your Excellency, the testimony of Adrianna that Flavia spent all night away from the House of Vestal on June 9. We are well aware that the testimony of a Vestal is sacrosanct and should never be questioned unless there are compelling reasons to do so.

  “The truth is that Flavia was someplace else that night. But I would ask Your Excellency not to be too hasty to conclude that it was for illicit purposes.”

  I paused and slowed down. I didn’t want Caligula to miss this.

  “Allow me to suggest another explanation, one that is entirely legal and even laudable. What if Flavia had a meeting with a very prominent citizen of our city? What if there was a medical emergency because this
man had an attack of parliamentary disease that required immediate medical attention?”

  I watched Caligula’s eyes narrow as I painted the scenario. Veins spiderwebbed on his temples, and I hoped that he was even now recalling the attack he had as a young boy and his family’s determined attempt to cover it up. Nearly three years ago, when I heard that Caligula was sick, I knew immediately what the illness was. But again he hid behind a shroud of secrecy because of the stigma associated with parliamentary disease. Caligula considered himself a god. He couldn’t allow anyone to think he had such a dreaded weakness.

  “What if she saw this person writhing on the ground, paralyzed, his mouth agape and his eyes rolled back in his head? What if she had to hold his tongue until the attack was over so he wouldn’t swallow it, wedging his mouth open with a piece of wood? What if she stayed there late into the night to make sure he would survive until morning?”

  Caligula pressed his lips tightly together, blood rushing to his face. He was seething, and I could see his devious mind racing, trying to figure out how to condemn my client without exposing himself.

  “As I mentioned earlier, the word of a Vestal is entitled to great weight. But I would also corroborate her testimony with other witnesses who have seen the same thing with this man. Perhaps not that night, but on other occasions.”

  I didn’t stoop down and write the names in the dirt, but my list had the same effect. I named the emperor’s private physician and his close bodyguards. I named Marcus Serbius, my childhood friend who had seen Caligula’s first episode of parliamentary disease when he was fourteen years old. I said that Marcus, as a physician, would testify about the effects of parliamentary disease on those who suffered from it and whether Flavia’s description fit the symptoms. For good measure, I also listed Seneca.