He spoke for three hours, stopping only now and again to sip a little diluted wine or to mop the rain from his face. His delivery became more and more powerful as he went on, and I was reminded of some strong and graceful fish that had been tossed, apparently dead, back into the water – inert at first and belly-up; but then suddenly, on finding itself returned to its natural element, with a flick of its tail, it revives. In the same way Cicero gathered strength from the very act of speaking, and he finished to prolonged applause not only from the crowd but from the jury. It proved to be a good omen: when their ballots were counted, Murena was acquitted by a huge majority. Cato and Servius left at once in a state of great dejection. Cicero lingered on the rostra just long enough to congratulate the consul-elect, and to receive many slaps on the back from Clodius, Hortensius and even Crassus, and then we headed home.
The instant we came into the street, we noticed a fine carriage drawn up outside the house. As we came closer, we saw that it was crammed with silver plate, statues, carpets and pictures. A wagon behind it was similarly laden. Cicero hurried forward. Sanga was waiting just inside the front door, his face as grey as an oyster.
'Well?' demanded Cicero.
'The conspirators have written their letters.'
'Excellent!' Cicero clapped his hands. 'Have you brought them with you?'
'Wait, Consul. There's more to it than that. The Gauls don't actually have the letters yet. They've been told to go to the Fontinalian Gate at midnight, and be ready to leave the city. They'll be met there by an escort, who'll give them the letters.'
'And why do they need an escort?'
'He'll take them to meet Catilina. And then from Catilina's camp they are to go directly to Gaul.'
'By the gods, if we can get hold of those letters, we will have them at last!' Cicero strode up and down the narrow passageway. 'We must lay an ambush,' he said to me, 'and catch them red-handed. Send for Quintus and Atticus.'
'You'll need soldiers,' I said, 'and an experienced man to command them.'
'He must be someone we can trust absolutely.'
I took out my notebook and stylus. 'What about Flaccus? Or Pomptinus?' Both men were praetors with long experience in the legions, and both had proved steadfast throughout the crisis.
'Good. Get them both here now.'
'And the soldiers?'
'We could use that century from Reate. They're still in their barracks. But they're to be told nothing of their mission. Not yet.'
He called for Sositheus and Laurea and rapidly issued the necessary instructions, then he turned to say something to Sanga, but the passageway behind him was empty, the front door open, and the street deserted. The senator had fled.
Quintus and Atticus arrived within the hour, and shortly afterwards the two praetors also turned up, greatly bemused by this dramatic summons. Without going into details, Cicero said simply that he had information that a delegation of Gauls would be leaving the city at midnight, together with an escort, and that he had reason to believe they were on their way to Catilina with incriminating documents. 'We need to stop them at all costs, but we need to let them get far enough along the road that there can be no doubt that they're leaving the city.'
'In my experience an ambush at night is always more difficult than it sounds,' said Quintus. 'In the darkness some are bound to escape – taking your evidence with them. Are you sure we can't simply seize them at the gate?'
But Flaccus, who was a soldier of the old school, having seen service under Isauricus, said immediately, 'What rubbish! I don't know what army you served in, but it should be easy enough. In fact I know just the spot. If they're taking the Via Flaminia, they'll have to cross the Tiber at the Mulvian Bridge. We'll trap them there. Once they're halfway across, there's no chance of escape, unless they're willing to throw themselves into the river and drown.'
Quintus looked very put out, and from that moment on effectively washed his hands of the whole operation, so much so that when Cicero suggested he should join Flaccus and Pomptinus at the bridge, he replied sulkily that it was clear his advice was not needed.
'In that case I shall have to go myself,' said Cicero, but everyone immediately objected to that on the grounds that it was not safe. 'Then it will have to be Tiro,' he concluded, and seeing my look of horror, he added: 'Someone has to be there who isn't a soldier. I shall need a clear account written up by an eyewitness that I can give to the senate tomorrow, and Flaccus and Pomptinus will be too busy directing operations.'
'What about Atticus?' I suggested – somewhat impertinently, I realise now, but fortunately for me, Cicero was too preoccupied to notice.
'He'll be in charge of my security in Rome, as usual.' Behind his back, Atticus shrugged at me apologetically. 'Now, Tiro, make sure you write down everything they say, and above all else, secure those letters with their seals unbroken.'
We set off on horseback well after darkness fell: the two praetors, their eight lictors, another four guards, and finally and reluctantly, me. To add to my woes I was a terrible rider. I bounced up and down in my saddle, an empty document case banging against my back. We clattered over the stones and through the city gate at such speed, I had to wind my fingers into the mane of my poor mare to stop myself falling off. Fortunately she was a tolerant beast, no doubt especially reserved for women and idiots, and as the road stretched down the hill and across the plain, she plunged on without requiring guidance from me, and so we managed to keep pace with the horses ahead of us.
It was one of those nights when the sky is an adventure all to itself, a brilliant moon racing through motionless oceans of silvery cloud. Beneath this celestial odyssey, the tombs lining the Via Flaminia silently flickered as if in a lightning storm. We trotted along steadily until, after about two miles, we came to the river. We drew to a halt and listened. In the darkness I could hear rushing water, and looking ahead I could just make out the flat roofs of a couple of houses and the silhouettes of trees, sharp against the hurtling sky. From somewhere close by a man's voice demanded the password. The praetors replied – 'Aemilius Scaurus!' – and suddenly, from both sides of the road, the men of the Reate century rose out of the ditches, their faces blackened with charcoal and mud. The praetors quickly divided this force in two. Pomptinus with his men was to remain where he was, while Flaccus led forty legionaries over to the opposite bank. For some reason it seemed to me safer to be with Flaccus, and I followed him on to the bridge. The river was wide and shallow and flowing very fast across the big flat rocks. I peered over the edge of the parapet to where the waters crashed and foamed against the pillars more than forty feet below, and I realised what an effective trap the bridge made, that jumping in to avoid capture would be an act of suicide.
In the house on the far bank there was a family asleep. At first they refused to let us in, but their door soon flew open when Flaccus threatened to break it down. They had irritated him so he locked them in the cellar. From the upstairs room we had a clear view of the road, and here we settled down to wait. The plan was that all travellers, from whichever direction, would be allowed on to the bridge, but that once they reached the other side they would be challenged and questioned before being allowed off it. Long hours passed and not a soul approached, and the conviction steadily grew in me that we must have been tricked. Either there was no party of Gauls heading out of the city that night, or they had already gone, or they had chosen a different route. I expressed these doubts to Flaccus, but he shook his grizzled head. 'They will come,' he said, and when I asked why he was so certain, he replied: 'Because the gods protect Rome.' Then he folded his large hands over his broad stomach and went to sleep.
I must have drifted off myself. At any rate, the next thing I remember is a hand on my shoulder and a voice hissing in my ear that there were men on the bridge. Straining my eyes into the darkness, I heard the sound of the horses' hoofs before I could make out the shapes of the riders – five, ten men or more, crossing at a leisurely pace. 'This is it!' whispered
Flaccus, jamming on his helmet, and with surprising speed for a man of his girth, he jumped down the stairs three at a time and ran out on to the road. As I ran after him I heard whistles and a trumpet blaring, and legionaries with drawn swords and some with torches began appearing from all directions and surging on to the bridge. The oncoming horses shied and stopped. A man yelled out that they must fight their way through. He spurred his horse and charged our line, heading straight for the spot where I was standing, slashing right and left with his sword. Someone next to me reached out to grab his reins, and to my amazement I saw the outstretched hand cleanly severed and land almost at my feet. Its owner screamed and the rider, realising there were too many to hack his way past, wheeled around and headed back the way he had come. He shouted to the others to follow, and the entire party now attempted to retreat towards Rome. But Pomptinus's men were flooding on to the bridge from the opposite side. We could see their torches and hear their excited cries. All of us ran in pursuit – even I, my fear entirely forgotten in my desire to seize those letters before they could be thrown into the river.
By the time we reached the middle of the bridge, the fighting was almost over. The Gauls, distinctive by their long hair and beards and their wild dress, were throwing down their weapons and dismounting; they must have been expecting an ambush such as this. Soon only the impetuous rider who had tried to break past us was still in his saddle, urging his companions to show some resistance. But it turned out they were slaves, with no stomach for a fight: they knew that even to raise a hand against a Roman citizen would mean crucifixion. One by one they surrendered. Eventually their leader also threw down his bloodied sword, then I saw him bend and hurriedly begin unfastening the straps of his saddlebag, at which I had the rare presence of mind to dart forward and seize the bag. He was young and very strong and almost managed to hurl it into the river, and would have done so had not other willing hands reached up and dragged him off his horse. I guess these men must have been friends of the soldier whose hand he had cut off, for they gave him quite a kicking before Flaccus wearily intervened and told them to stop. He was dragged up by his hair and Pomptinus, who knew him, identified him as Titus Volturcius, a knight from the town of Croton. I meanwhile had his bag in my hand, and I called over a soldier with a torch so that I could search it properly. Inside were six letters, all sealed.
I sent a messenger at once to Cicero to tell him that our mission had borne fruit. Then, once our prisoners had all been bound with their hands behind their backs and roped in a line at the neck – all except the Gauls, who were treated with the respect due to ambassadors – we started back to Rome.
We entered the city just before dawn. A few people were already up. They stopped and gawped at our sinister little procession as we crossed the forum and headed up the hill to Cicero's house. We left the prisoners outside in the street under close guard. Inside, the consul received us flanked by Quintus and Atticus. He listened to the praetors' accounts, thanked them warmly, and then asked to see Volturcius. He was pushed and dragged in, looking bruised and frightened, and immediately launched into some absurd story about being asked by Umbrenus to convey the Gauls out of the city, and at the last moment being given some letters to carry, and not knowing their contents.
'Then why did you put up such a fight on the bridge?' demanded Pomptinus.
'I thought you were highwaymen.'
'Highwaymen in army uniform? Commanded by praetors?'
'Take the villain away,' ordered Cicero, 'and don't bring him back until he's ready to tell the truth.'
After the prisoner had been dragged out, Flaccus said, 'We need to act quickly, before the news is all over Rome.'
'You're right,' agreed Cicero. He asked to see the letters and we examined them together. Two I easily recognised as belonging to the urban praetor, Lentulus Sura: his seal included a portrait of his grandfather, who had been consul a century earlier. The other four we worked out from the names on our lists as probably having come from the young senator Cornelius Cethegus, and the three knights Capito, Statilius and Caeparius. The praetors watched us impatiently.
'Surely there's an easy way to settle this?' said Pomptinus. 'Why don't we just open the letters?'
'That would be tampering with evidence,' replied Cicero, continuing his minute perusal of the letters.
'With respect, Consul,' growled Flaccus, 'we're wasting time.'
I realise now of course that wasting time was precisely Cicero's intention. He knew how awkward his position would be if he had to decide the conspirators' fate. He was giving them a final chance to flee. His preferred solution was still for them to be dealt with by the army in battle. But he could only delay for so long, and eventually he told us to go and fetch them. 'Mind you, I don't want them arrested,' he cautioned. 'Simply tell them the consul would be grateful for an opportunity to clear up a few matters, and ask them to come and see me.'
The praetors clearly thought he was being feeble but they did as they were commanded. I was sent to accompany Flaccus to the homes of Sura and Cethegus, who lived on the Palatine; Pomptinus went off to locate the others. I remember how odd it felt to approach Lentulus Sura's grand ancestral house and discover life there going on entirely as normal. He had not fled; quite the opposite. His clients were waiting patiently in the public rooms to see him. When he heard we were at the door, he sent out his stepson, Mark Antony, to discover what we wanted. Antony was then just twenty, very tall and strong, with a fashionable goatee beard and a face still thickly covered in pimples. It was the first time I had ever met him, and I wish I could remember more about this encounter, but I'm afraid all I can recall are his spots. He went off and gave his stepfather the message, and returned to say that the praetor would call on the consul as soon as he had finished his morning levee.
It was the same story at the home of Caius Cethegus, that fiery young patrician who, like his kinsman Sura, was a member of the Cornelian clan. Petitioners were queuing to talk to him, but he at least paid us the compliment of coming into the atrium himself. He looked Flaccus up and down as if he were a stray dog, heard what he had to say, and replied that it was not his habit to go running to anyone when called, but out of respect for the office, if not the man, he would attend on the consul very shortly.
We went back to Cicero, who was clearly amazed to hear that the two senators were still in Rome. 'What are they thinking of?' he muttered to me.
In fact it turned out that only one of the five – Caeparius, a knight from Terracina – had actually run away from the city. The rest all arrived separately at Cicero's house over the next hour or so, such was their supreme confidence that they were untouchable. I often wonder when it was they started to realise that they had made an appalling miscalculation. Was it when they reached the street where Cicero lived and discovered it jammed with armed men, prisoners and curious onlookers? Was it when they went inside to find not just Cicero but the two consuls-elect, Silanus and Murena, and the principal leaders of the senate – Catulus, Isauricus, Hortensius, Lucullus and several others – all of whom Cicero had summoned to witness proceedings? Or was it, perhaps, when they saw their letters laid out on the table, with the seals unbroken? Or noticed the Gauls being treated as honoured guests in an adjoining room? Or was it when Volturcius abruptly changed his mind and decided to save himself by testifying against them, in return for the promise of a pardon? I imagine it might have felt rather like drowning – a dawning realisation that they had ventured out of their depth, and were being carried further and further away from the shore with every passing moment. Only when Volturcius accused Cethegus to his face of boasting that he would murder Cicero and then storm the senate house did Cethegus at last jump to his feet and declare he would not stay here and listen to this a moment longer. But he found his exit blocked by two legionaries of the Reate century, who returned him very forcefully to his chair.
Cicero turned to his new star witness. 'And what about Lentulus Sura? What exactly did he say to you?'
'Is this true, Sura?' But Sura made no reply and merely stared straight ahead, blinking rapidly. Cicero sighed. 'An hour ago you could have left the city unmolested. Now I'd be as guilty as you are if I dared to let you go.' He beckoned to the soldiers standing in the atrium. They filed in and stationed themselves in pairs behind the conspirators.
'Open Sura's letters!' cried Catulus, who could not contain his fury any longer at this betrayal of the republic by the direct descendant of one of the six founding families of Rome. 'Open the letters and let's discover how far the treasonous swine was prepared to go!'
'Not yet,' said Cicero. 'We'll do that in front of the senate.' He looked sadly at the conspirators who were now his prisoners. 'Whatever happens, I don't want anyone ever to be able to say I forged evidence or coerced testimony.'
It was now the middle of the morning. Incongruously, the house was starting to fill with flowers and greenery in preparation for the annual ceremony of the Good Goddess, over which Terentia was due to preside that night as the wife of the senior magistrate. As slaves carried in baskets of mistletoe, myrtle and winter roses, Cicero issued a decree that the senate should meet that afternoon not in their usual chamber but in the Temple of Concordia, so that the spirit of the goddess of national harmony might guide their deliberations. He also gave orders that a newly completed statue of Jupiter, originally destined for the Capitol, should be put up at once in the forum in front of the rostra. 'I shall surround myself with a bodyguard of deities,' he said to me. 'Because mark my words, by the time this is over, I may well have need of all the protection I can get.'
The five conspirators were kept under guard in the atrium while Cicero went to his study to question the Gauls. Their testimony was, if anything, even more damning than that of Volturcius, for it turned out that just before leaving Rome, the ambassadors had been taken to the house of Cethegus and shown a stockpile of weapons that were to be distributed when the signal for the massacre was given. I was sent along with Flaccus to make an inventory of this arsenal, which we discovered in the tablinum, stacked in boxes from floor to ceiling. The swords and knives were unused, gleaming and of a curious curved design, with strange carvings on their hilts. Flaccus said they looked foreign-made to him. I rested my thumb on the blade of one sword. It was as sharp as a razor, and I thought with a shiver that not only might Cicero's throat have been cut with it, but very probably mine as well.
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