Lustrum c-2

by Robert Harris

  This, then, was how matters stood on the morning of the trial. Even as Cicero was checking his speech and dressing to go down to the Field of Mars, Quintus turned up in his chamber and urged his brother to withdraw as defence counsel. He had done all he could, argued Quintus, and would only suffer an unnecessary loss of prestige when Rabirius was found guilty. It might also be physically dangerous for him to confront the populists outside the city walls. I could see that Cicero was tempted by these arguments. But not the least of the reasons why I loved him, despite his faults, was that he possessed that most attractive form of courage: the bravery of a nervous man. After all, any rash fool can be a hero if he sets no value on his life, or hasn't the wit to appreciate danger. But to understand the risks, perhaps even to flinch at first, but then to summon the strength to face them down – that in my opinion is the most commendable form of valour, and that was what Cicero displayed that day.

  Labienus was already in place on the platform when we reached the Field of Mars, alongside his precious stage prop, the bust of Saturninus. He was an ambitious soldier, one of Pompey's fellow countrymen from Picenum, and he affected to copy the great general in all things – his girth, his swaggering gait, even his hair, which he wore swept back in a Pompeian wave. When he saw Cicero and his lictors approaching, he put his fingers in his mouth and let out a derisive whistle, and this was taken up by the crowd, which must have numbered about ten thousand. It was an intimidating noise, and it intensified as Hortensius appeared leading Rabirius by the hand. The old fellow did not look frightened so much as bewildered by the racket and the numbers pressing forward to get a glimpse of him. I was pushed and shoved as I struggled to stay close to Cicero. I noticed a line of legionaries, their helmets and breastplates glinting in the bright January light, and behind them, sitting in a stand on a row of seats reserved for distinguished spectators, the military commanders Quintus Metellus, conqueror of Crete, and Licinius Lucullus, Pompey's predecessor in the East. Cicero made a face at me when he saw them, for he had promised both aristocratic generals triumphs in return for their support at election time, and had so far done nothing about it.

  'It must be a crisis,' Cicero whispered to me, 'if Lucullus has left his palace on the Bay of Naples to mingle with the common herd!'

  He clambered up the ladder on to the platform, along with Hortensius, and finally Rabirius, who had such difficulty mounting the rungs his advocates finally had to reach down and haul him up. All three glistened with the spittle that had been showered on them. Hortensius looked especially appalled, for obviously he had not realised how unpopular the senate had become during that hard winter. The orators sat down on their bench, with Rabirius between them. A trumpet sounded, and across the river the red flag was hoisted over the hill of Janiculum to signal that the city was in no peril of assault and the assembly could begin.

  As the presiding magistrate, Labienus both controlled proceedings and acted as prosecutor, and this gave him a tremendous advantage. A bully by nature, he elected to speak first, and was soon shouting abuse at Rabirius, who sank lower and lower in his seat. Labienus did not bother to summon witnesses. He did not need to: he had the votes already. He finished with a stern peroration about the arrogance of the senate and the greed of the small clique that controlled it, and the necessity to make a harsh example of Rabirius, so that never in the future would any consul dare to imagine he could sanction the murder of a fellow citizen and hope to escape unpunished. The crowd roared in agreement. 'I realised then,' Cicero confided in me afterwards, 'with the force of a revelation, that the true target of this lynch mob of Caesar's was not Rabirius at all, but me, as consul, and that somehow I had to regain control of the situation before my authority to deal with the likes of Catilina was destroyed entirely.'

  Hortensius went next, and did his best, but those great orotund purple passages for which he was so famous belonged to another setting – and, in truth, another era. He was past fifty, had more or less retired, was out of practice – and it showed. Some in the audience near the platform actually began to talk over him, and I was close enough to see the panic in his face as Hortensius gradually realised that he – the great Hortensius, the Dancing Master, the King of the Law Courts – was actually losing his audience! The more frantically he flung out his arms and patrolled the platform and swivelled his noble head, the more risible he seemed. Nobody was interested in his arguments. I could not hear all of what he said, as the din was tremendous, with thousands of citizens milling around and chatting to one another while they waited to vote. He broke off, sweating despite the cold, and wiped his face with his handkerchief, then called his witnesses, first Catulus and next Isauricus. Each came up to the platform and was heard respectfully. But the moment Hortensius resumed his speech, the racket of conversation started up again. By then he could have combined the tongue of Demosthenes with the wit of Plautus – it would not have made a difference. Cicero stared straight ahead into the din, white-faced, immobile, as if chiselled out of marble.

  At length Hortensius sat down and it was Cicero's turn to speak. Labienus called on him to address the assembly, but such was the volume of noise he did not rise at first. Instead he examined his toga carefully, and brushed away a few invisible specks. The hubbub continued. He checked his fingernails. He folded his arms. He looked around him. He waited. It went on a long time. And amazingly a kind of sullen, respectful silence did eventually fall over the Field of Mars. Only then did Cicero nod, as if in approval, and slowly get to his feet.

  'Although it is not my habit, fellow citizens,' he said, 'to begin a speech by explaining why I am appearing on behalf of a particular individual, nonetheless in defending the life, the honour and the fortunes of Gaius Rabirius, I consider it my duty to lay before you an explanation. For this trial is not really about Rabirius – old, infirm and friendless as he is. This trial, gentlemen, is nothing less than an attempt to ensure that from now on there should be no central authority in the state, no concerted action of good citizens against the frenzy and audacity of wicked men, no refuge for the republic in emergencies, and no security for its welfare. Since this is so,' he continued, his voice becoming louder, his hands and his gaze rising slowly to the heavens, 'I beg of most high and mighty Jupiter and all the other immortal gods and goddesses to grant me their grace and favour, and I pray that by their will this day that has dawned may see the salvation of my client and the rescue of the constitution!'

  Cicero used to say that the bigger a crowd the more stupid it is, and that a useful trick with an immense multitude is always to call on the supernatural. His words carried like a rolling drum across the hushed plain. There was still some chatter at the periphery, but it was too far away to drown him out.

  'Labienus, you summon this assembly as a great populist. But of the two of us, which is really the people's friend? You, who think it right to threaten Roman citizens with the executioner even in the midst of their assembly; who, on the Field of Mars, give orders for the erection of a cross for the punishment of citizens? Or I, who refuse to allow this assembly to be defiled by the presence of the executioner? What a friend of the people our tribune is, what a guardian and defender of its rights and liberties!'

  Labienus waved his hand at Cicero, as if he were a horsefly to be swiped away, but there was petulance in the gesture: like all bullies, he was better at handing out injuries than absorbing them.

  'You maintain,' continued Cicero, 'that Gaius Rabirius killed Lucius Saturninus, a charge that Quintus Hortensius, in the course of his most ample defence, has proved to be false. But if it were up to me, I would brave this charge. In fact I would admit it. I would plead guilty to it!' A rumble of anger began to spread among the crowd, but Cicero shouted over their jeers. 'Yes, yes, I would admit it! I only wish I could proclaim that my client's was the hand that struck down that public enemy Saturninus!' He pointed dramatically at the bust, and it was some while before he could carry on, such was the volume of the hostility directed at him. 'You say y
our uncle was there, Labienus. Well, suppose he was. And suppose he was there not because his ruined fortunes left him no choice, but because his intimacy with Saturninus led him to put his friend before his country. Was that a reason for Gaius Rabirius to desert the republic and disobey the command and authority of the consul? What should I do, gentlemen, if Labienus, like Saturninus, caused a massacre of the citizens, broke from prison, and seized the Capitol with an armed force? I tell you what I should do. I should do as the consul did then. I should bring a motion before the senate, exhort you to defend the republic, and take arms myself to oppose, with your help, an armed enemy. And what would Labienus do? He would have me crucified! '

  Yes, it was a brave performance, and I hope I have given here some flavour of the scene: the orators on the platform with their querulous client, the lictors lined up around the base to protect the consul, the teeming citizenry of Rome – plebs and knights and senators all pressed together – the legionaries in their plumed helmets and the generals in their scarlet cloaks, the sheep pens set out and made ready for the vote; the noise of it, the temples gleaming on the distant Capitol, and the bitter January cold. I kept a lookout for Caesar, and occasionally I thought I glimpsed his lean face peering from the crowd. Catilina was certainly there with his claque, including Rufus, who was yelling his share of insults at his former patron. Cicero finished, as he always did, by standing with his hand on the shoulder of his client and appealing for the mercy of the court – 'He does not ask you to grant him a happy life but only an honourable death' – and then it was all over and Labienus gave orders for the voting to begin.

  Cicero commiserated with the dejected Hortensius, then jumped down from the platform and came over to where I was standing. He was still full of fire, as always after a big speech, breathing deeply, his eyes shining, his nostrils flared, like a horse at the end of a gruelling race. It had been a stirring performance. I remember one phrase in particular: 'Narrow indeed are the bounds within which Nature has confined our lives, but those of our glory are infinite.' Unfortunately, fine words are no substitute for votes, and when Quintus joined us he announced grimly that all was lost. He had just come from observing the first ballots cast – the centuries were voting unanimously to condemn Rabirius, which meant that the old man would be obliged to leave Italy immediately, his house would be pulled down, and all his property confiscated.

  'This is a tragedy,' swore Cicero.

  'You did your best, brother. At least he is an old man and has lived his life.'

  'I'm not thinking of Rabirius, you idiot, but of my consulship!'

  Just as he was speaking, we heard a shout and a scream. A scuffle had started nearby, and when we turned we could clearly see the tall figure of Catilina in the thick of it, laying about him with his fists. Some of the legionaries ran to separate the combatants. Beyond them, Metellus and Lucullus had risen to their feet to watch. The augur, Celer, who was standing beside his cousin Metellus, had his hands cupped to his mouth and was urging the soldiers on. 'Just look at Celer there,' said Cicero, with a hint of admiration, 'simply itching to join in. He loves a fight!' He became thoughtful and then said suddenly, 'I'm going to talk to him.'

  He set off so abruptly that his lictors had to scramble to get ahead of him to clear a path. When the two generals saw the consul approaching, they glowered at him. Both had been stuck outside the city for a long while waiting for the senate to vote them their triumphs – years, in the case of Lucullus, who had whiled away his time building a vast retreat at Misenum on the Bay of Naples as well as his mansion north of Rome. But the senate was reluctant to accede to their demands, chiefly because both had quarrelled with Pompey. So they were trapped. Only holders of imperium could have a triumph; but entering Rome to argue for a triumph would automatically end their imperium. One could sympathise with their frustration.

  'Imperator,' said Cicero, raising his hand in salute to each man in turn. 'Imperator.'

  'We have matters we need to discuss with you,' began Metellus in a menacing tone.

  'I know exactly what you are about to say, and I assure you I shall keep my promise and argue your case in the senate to the full extent of my powers. But that's for another day. Do you see how hard pressed I am at the moment? I need some assistance, not for my sake but for the nation's. Celer, will you help me save the republic?'

  Celer exchanged glances with his cousin. 'I don't know. That depends on what you want me to do.'

  'It's dangerous work,' warned Cicero, knowing full well that this would make the challenge irresistible to a man such as Celer.

  'I've never been called a coward. Tell me.'

  'I want you to take a detachment of your cousin's excellent legionaries, cross the river, climb the Janiculum and haul down the flag.'

  Even Celer swayed back on his heels at that, for the lowering of the flag – signalling the approach of an enemy army – would automatically suspend the assembly, and the Janiculum was always heavily protected by guards. Both he and his cousin turned to Lucullus, the senior of the trio, and I watched as that elegant patrician calculated the odds. 'It's a fairly desperate trick, Consul,' he said.

  'It is. But if we lose this vote, it will be a disaster for Rome. No consul will ever again be sure he has the authority to suppress an armed rebellion. I don't know why Caesar wishes to set such a precedent, but I do know we can't afford to let him.'

  In the end, it was Metellus who said, 'He's right, Lucius. Let's give him the men. Quintus,' he said to Celer, 'are you willing?'

  'Of course.'

  'Good,' said Cicero. 'The guards should obey you as praetor, but in case they make trouble, I'll send my secretary with you,' and to my dismay he pulled his ring from his finger and pressed it into my hand. 'You're to tell the commander that the consul says an enemy threatens Rome,' he said to me, 'and the flag must be lowered. My ring is the proof that you are my emissary. Do you think you can do that?'

  I nodded. What else could I do? Metellus meanwhile was beckoning to the centurion who had weighed in against Catilina, and very soon afterwards I found myself panting along behind a contingent of thirty legionaries, their swords drawn, moving at the double, with Celer and the centurion at their head. Our mission – let us be frank about this – was to disrupt the Roman people in a lawful assembly, and I remember thinking, Never mind Rabirius, this is treason.

  We left the Field of Mars and trotted across the Sublician Bridge, over the swollen brown waters of the Tiber, then traversed the flat plain of the Vaticanum, which was filled with the squalid tents and small makeshift huts of the homeless. At the foot of the Janiculum the crows of Juno watched from the bare branches of their sacred grove – such a mass of gnarled black shapes that when we passed and sent them crying into the air it was as if the very wood itself had taken flight. We toiled on up the road to the summit, and never did a hill seem so steep. Even as I write, I can feel again the thump of my heart and the searing of my lungs as I sobbed for breath. The pain in my side was as sharp as a spear tip being pressed into my flesh.

  On the ridge of the hill, at the highest point, stands a shrine to Janus, with one face turned to Rome and the other to the open country, and above this, atop a high pole, flew a huge red flag, flapping and cracking in the stiff wind. About twenty legionaries were huddled around two large braziers, and before they could do anything to stop us we had them surrounded.

  'Some of you men know me!' shouted Celer. 'I am Quintus Caecilius Metellus Celer – praetor, augur, lately returned from the army of my brother-in-law, Pompey the Great. And this fellow,' he said, gesturing to me, 'comes with the ring of our consul, Cicero. His orders are to lower the flag. Who's in command here?'

  'I am,' said a centurion, stepping forward. He was an experienced man of about forty. 'And I don't care whose brother-in-law you are, or what authority you have, that flag stays flying unless an enemy threatens Rome.'

  'But an enemy does threaten Rome,' said Celer. 'See!' And he pointed to the countryside west of the
city, which was all spread out beneath us. The centurion turned to look, and in a flash, Celer had seized him from behind by his hair and had the edge of his sword at the soldier's throat. 'When I tell you there's an enemy coming,' he hissed, 'there's an enemy coming, understand? And do you know how I know there's an enemy coming, even though you can't see anything?' He gave the man's hair a vicious tug, which made him grunt. 'Because I'm a fucking augur, that's why. Now take down that flag, and sound the alarm.'

  Nobody argued after that. One of the sentries unfastened the rope and hauled down the flag, while another picked up his trumpet and blew several piercing blasts. I looked across the river to the Field of Mars and the thousands all standing around there, but the distance was too great to judge immediately what was happening. Only gradually did it become apparent that the crowd was draining away, and that the clouds of dust rising at the edge of the field were being raised by people fleeing to their homes. Cicero described to me afterwards the effect of the trumpet and the realisation that the flag was coming down. Labienus had tried to calm the crowd and assure them it was a trick, but people in a mass are as stupid and easily frightened as a school of fish or a herd of beasts. In no time word spread that the city was about to be attacked. Despite the pleas of Labienus and his fellow tribunes, voting had to be abandoned. Many of the fences of the sheep pens were smashed by the stampeding citizens. The stand where Lucullus and Metellus had been sitting was knocked over and trampled to pieces. There was a fight. A pickpocket was stabbed to death. The pontifex maximus, Metellus Pius, suffered some kind of seizure and had to be rushed back to the city, unconscious. According to Cicero, only one man remained calm, and that was Gaius Rabirius, rocking back and forth on his bench, alone on the deserted platform amid the chaos, his eyes closed, humming to himself some strange and discordant tune.