“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 was 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 wid
e 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.
“I do no such thing!” He was losing track of his thoughts now. “You are trying to confuse the people with this absurd display and with your wild accusations. You think you can escape your guilt with this spectacle of breeding and glory.”
I held up a hand for silence, and gradually the crowd quieted. It was time for a change of pace.
“Very well. Let’s forget about families and scars, about services to the state and public spectacles, magnificent though they might be. Let us consider”—I paused dramatically—“evidence.”
“Evidence?” he said, as if he had never heard the word. Maybe he hadn’t.
“Yes, evidence. It refers to the tangible and perceptible signs that something has or has not taken place. All those things that do not in themselves constitute proof, but that, taken collectively, point to the truth.”
“The concept is not unknown to me,” he said, gathering up his dignity. But he was playing my game now. “Of what does this evidence of yours consist?”
I cast my gaze around. The crowd was respectfully silent now, intrigued by this unexpected turn. My family looked distressed, afraid that I would now trot out all the business of codes and conspiracies and make myself look like an idiot. I saw familiar faces watching me with varying degrees of anticipation. Pompey looked disgusted. Curio showed a cool amusement, but beneath that was something else: apprehension? A small crowd of high-born women watched from the steps of the Temple of Castor and Pollux, surrounded by their slaves to keep the rabble away. Among them I saw Octavia, watching with a fatalistic resignation. Fulvia was there, looking like she was enjoying herself. Julia smiled at me with sublime confidence. I smiled back, briefly.
“Evidence,” I said, “can take the form of words spoken without thought, words that betray a man’s hidden guilt. But in order for these words to constitute evidence, they must be heard by more than a single witness. Best of all is if they should be spoken in public.”
“Very well,” Manilius said, “what words were spoken and who heard them? Bring forth your witnesses, always taking into account, of course”—here he gestured broadly to the people—“that the rich and powerful can always bribe and suborn all the witnesses they need. Such evidence should be given no more credence than it deserves.”
“Why,” I said, “my witnesses are these citizens assembled in the Forum.” Now it was my turn for the broad, sweeping gesture, taking them all in. “I think that all of these good citizens will agree that just a few moments ago, they heard you say that Marcus Fulvius was held from behind and foully butchered.”
“Yes, so?”
“That he was slashed many times none can doubt. But how did you come to know that he was held from behind?”
“Why—it was obvious.” Now he was badly rattled, unprepared for this.
“Not to me, it wasn’t. Many distinguished men were on the steps of the basilica that day, not only members of my own family but the praetor Juventius, the consular Appius Claudius Pulcher, as well as many honest citizens of all classes. The terrible wounds on the body of Fulvius were apparent to all, but not such subtle details as the fact that he was restrained.”
“It just makes sense!” he cried.
“Not without a certain amount of examination, an impossible task on those steps, in the dim light of early morning. In fact, I had the body taken to the Temple of Venus Libitina and there examined by the famous Asklepiodes. That learned man pointed out to me that Fulvius’s wounds were all on the front of his torso, that he had been unable to turn or to bring his arms into play. Hence, he must have been restrained.
“When I speculated that he might have been bound, Asklepiodes informed me that, in that case, the marks of cords or shackles would have been plainly visible. They were not, hence Fulvius was held, from behind, by at least two powerful men while his assailants plunged their blades into his body. You are no Greek physician, Manilius. How did you know?”
There was dead silence throughout the Forum, and this was more ominous than the growling and shouting had been.
“But I had no cause to wish the death of Fulvius! Citizens, don’t listen to this fool!”
“Oh, you barely knew the man. But then, you don’t act for yourself, do you? Who told you to get rid of him? Might it have been the same person or persons who gave you that fine, rich villa in Baiae? One that is almost as fine as Cicero’s or Pompey’s?” A bit of an exaggeration, but not by much. I pointed up at the great building cloaking the hillside to the west. “The evidence is right there, Citizens! In the Tabularium! Last year, when he declared himself a candidate, he listed among his assets a splendid villa in Baiae that he did not own on the last census!”
The low rumble came again from the crowd. Even when I was inciting it, I was dismayed and frightened by how easily they could be swayed. One minute they thirsted for my blood, the next for his.
“He was bought! Tell us, Manilius! Who owns you? Who were your accomplices in the murder of Marcus Fulvius? Were they one and the same?” Now I looked around again. The Marcelli were nowhere to be seen, but they could be lurking in the shade of porticoes or hiding in covered litters. Curio had gone pale. Curio, who had told me that he and Manilius had worked closely together the previous year. Curio, who had somehow known that Fulvius had been murdered elsewhere and carried to the basilica steps.
“You barely knew the man. But there are men in the Senate, and prominent members of the Equestrian Order, who know otherwise. In the last year, Fulvius gave a number of dinners where radical politics were discussed. You were at every one of those gatherings, weren’t you, Publius Manilius? Remember, this crowd is full of witnesses who know the truth, though they may be hesitant to speak up now. They also know that the policies you now espouse are at variance with those discussed in those meetings. You and Fulvius had a falling-out, didn’t you? A deadly one.”
Manilius drew himself up. “You may not accuse, nor lay violent hands upon, the person of a Tribune of the People!”
“Until sundown, Manilius,” Cato shouted, pointing at the angle of the sun. “At sundown you and all the other tribunes lay down your powers and become ordinary citizens. How far can you get by sundown, Manilius?”
“I declare this procedure at an end!” Manilius cried. “All citizens are to disperse!” With the shreds remaining of his
dignity, he descended the steps and began his long walk across the Forum. People drew back from him as if he carried some deadly contagion. It gave new meaning to the word “untouchable.”
Cato strode to the edge of the podium and spoke to the soldiers. “A tribune loses his powers and his sacrosanctity if he passes the first milestone. Post men on all the roads out of the city and arrest him as soon as he passes the milestone.”
“Bring him back here alive,” I told them. “I want the names of his accomplices.”
“What are the chances,” Father asked, “that he’ll even reach one of the gates?”
“Slim,” I acknowledged. “Too many people need to clean up after themselves.”
“Unfortunate,” said Metellus Creticus. “It would be nice to get the Marcelli barred from the consulship.”
“Yes,” I said, “and now we’ll have to keep an eye on Curio.”
“Curio is Caesar’s man,” Scipio said. “Why would he be involved in this?”
Cato shook his head in disgust. “It’s like casting your net for a whole school of fish and drawing back only one, and that one not the biggest of them.”
“Sometimes,” I said, “you just have to catch them one at a time.”
ALL THAT WAS A LONG TIME AGO. OF course, the Marcelli held onto the consulship and, as everyone knows, Caesar became dictator and Octavia’s brother, Octavius, became his heir; he is now our First Citizen. Ironically, Marcellus, the son of Caius Marcellus and Octavia, turned out to be the First Citizen’s favorite nephew and would have been his heir had he not died tragically young. Fulvia eventually married Antonius, but then, so did Octavia, although she lost him to Cleopatra. When you consider how it all turned out, it’s a little hard to understand what they were all fighting and clawing at one another for during those dying days of the Republic. But it all somehow seemed terribly important at the time.
THESE WERE THE EVENTS OF FIVE days in the year 703 of the City of Rome, the consulship of Servius Sulpicius Rufus and Marcus Claudius Marcellus.
SPQR X: A Point of Law Page 24
