'How much longer must we put up with your madness?'
He descended from his dais and started to advance very slowly along the aisle to where Catilina was sitting. As he walked, he extended both his arms and briefly gestured to the senators to take their places, which they did, and somehow that school-masterly gesture, and their instant compliance, established his authority. He was speaking for the republic.
'Is there no end to your arrogance? Don't you understand that we know what you're up to? Don't you appreciate that your conspiracy is uncovered? Do you think there's a man among us who doesn't know what you did last night – where you were, who came to your meeting, and what you agreed?' He stood at last in front of Catilina, his arms akimbo, looked him up and down, and shook his head. 'Oh, what times are these,' he said in a voice of utter disgust, 'and oh, what morals! The senate knows everything, the consul knows everything, and yet – this man is still alive!'
He wheeled around. 'Alive? Not just alive, gentlemen,' he cried, moving on down the aisle from Catilina and addressing the packed benches from the centre of the temple, 'he attends the senate! He takes part in our debates. He listens to us. He watches us – and all the time he's deciding who he's going to kill! Is this how we serve the republic – simply by sitting here, hoping it's not going to be us? How very brave we are! It's been twenty days since we voted ourselves the authority to act. We have the sword – but we keep it sheathed! You ought to have been executed immediately, Catilina. Yet still you live. And as long as you live, you don't give up your plotting – you increase it!'
I suppose by now even Catilina must have realised the size of his mistake in coming into the temple. In terms of physical strength and sheer effrontery he was much more powerful than Cicero. But the senate was not the arena for brute force. The weapons here were words, and no one ever knew how to deploy words as well as Cicero. For twenty years, whenever the courts were in session, scarcely a day had gone by that hadn't seen Cicero practising his craft. In a sense, his whole life had been but a preparation for this moment.
'Let's go over the events of last night. You went to the street of the scythe-makers – I'll be precise – to the house of Marcus Laeca. There you were joined by your criminal accomplices. Well, do you deny it? Why the silence? If you deny it, I'll prove it. In fact, I see some of those who were with you here in the senate. In heaven's name, where in the world are we? What country is this? What city are we living in? Here, gentlemen – here in our very midst, in this, the most sacred and important council in the world, there are men who want to destroy us, destroy our city, and extend that destruction to the entire world!
'You were at the house of Laeca, Catilina. You carved up the regions of Italy. You decided where you wanted each man to go. You said you would go yourself as soon I was dead. You chose parts of the city to be burnt. You sent two men to kill me. So I say to you, why don't you finish the journey you have begun? At long last really leave the city! The gates are open. Be on your way! The rebel army awaits its general. Take all your men with you. Cleanse the city. Put a wall between us. You cannot remain among us any longer – I cannot, I will not, I must not permit it!'
He thumped his right fist against his chest and cast his eyes to the roof of the temple as the senate came to its feet, bellowing its approval. 'Kill him!' someone shouted. 'Kill him! Kill him!' The cry was passed from man to man. Cicero waved them back down on to their benches.
'If I give an order for you to be killed, there will remain in the state the rest of the conspirators. But if, as I have long been urging, you leave the city, you will drain from it that flood of sewage that for you are your accomplices and for the rest of us our deadly enemies. Well, Catilina? What are you waiting for? What's left that can give you any pleasure in this city now? Beyond that conspiracy of ruined men, there isn't a single person who doesn't fear you, not one who doesn't hate you.'
There was much more in this vein, and then Cicero moved into his peroration. 'Let the traitors, then, depart!' he concluded. 'Go forth, Catilina, to your iniquitous and wicked war, and so bring sure salvation to the republic, disaster and ruin on yourself, and destruction to those who have joined you. Jupiter, you will protect us,' he thundered, reaching out his hand to the statue of the deity, 'and visit on these evil men, alive or dead, your punishment eternal!'
He turned away and stalked up the aisle to the dais. Now the chant was 'Go! Go! Go!' In an effort to retrieve the situation, Catilina leapt to his feet and began waving his arms about and shouting at Cicero's back. But it was far too late for him to undo the damage, and he didn't have the skill. He was flayed, humiliated, exposed, finished. I caught the words 'immigrant' and 'exile,' but the din was too great for him to be heard, and in any case his fury rendered him almost incomprehensible. As the cacophony of sound raged around him he fell silent, breathing deeply, and stood there for a short while longer, turning this way and that, like a once great ship lashed by a terrible storm, mastless and twisting at anchor, until something in him seemed to give way. He shuddered and stepped out into the aisle, at which point several senators, including Quintus, jumped across the benches to protect the consul. But even Catilina was not that demented: had he lunged at his enemy he would have been torn to pieces. Instead, with a final contemptuous glance around him – a glance that no doubt took in all those ancient glories in which his ancestors had played their part – he marched out of the senate. Later that same day, accompanied by twelve followers whom he called his lictors, and preceded by the silver eagle that had once belonged to Marius, he left the city and went to Arretium, where he formally proclaimed himself consul.
There are no lasting victories in politics, there is only the remorseless grinding forward of events. If my work has a moral, this is it. Cicero had scored an oratorical triumph over Catilina that would be talked about for years. With the whip of his tongue he had driven the monster from Rome. But the sewage, as he called it, did not, as he had hoped, drain away with him. On the contrary, after their leader had departed, Sura and the others remained calmly in their places, listening to the rest of the debate. They sat together, presumably on the principle of safety in numbers: Sura, Cethegus, Longinus, Annius, Paetus, the tribune-elect Bestia, the Sulla brothers, even Marcus Laeca, from whose house the assassins had been dispatched. I could see Cicero staring at them and I wondered what was going through his mind. Sura actually rose at one point and suggested in his sonorous voice that Catilina's wife and children be placed under the protection of the senate! The discussion meandered on. Then the tribune-elect Metellus Nepos demanded the floor. Now that Catilina had left the city, he said, presumably to lead the insurrection, surely the most prudent course would be to invite Pompey the Great back to Italy to take charge of the senatorial forces? Caesar quickly stood and seconded the proposal. Nimble-witted as ever, Cicero saw a chance to drive a wedge between his opponents, and with an innocent air of genuine interest he asked Crassus, who had been consul alongside Pompey, for his opinion. Crassus got up reluctantly.
'Nobody has a higher opinion of Pompey the Great than I,' he began, and then had to stop for a while, tapping his foot irritably as the temple shook with mocking laughter. 'Nobody has a higher opinion than I,' he repeated, 'but I have to say to the tribune-elect, in case he hasn't noticed, that it's nearly winter, the very worst time to transport troops by sea. How can Pompey possibly be here before the spring?'
'Then let us have Pompey the Great without his army,' countered Nepos. 'Travelling with a light escort he can be with us in a month. His name alone is worth a dozen legions.'
This was too much for Cato. He was on his feet in an instant. 'The enemies we face will not be defeated by names,' he mocked, 'even names that end in “Great”. What we need are armies: armies in the field – armies like the one being raised at this very moment by the tribune-elect's own brother. Besides, if you ask me, Pompey has too much power as it is.'
That drew a loud and shocked 'Oh!' from the assembly.
'If this sen
ate will not vote Pompey the command,' said Nepos, 'then I give you fair warning that I shall lay a bill before the people as soon as I take office as tribune demanding his recall.'
'And I give you fair warning,' retorted Cato, 'that I shall veto your bill.'
'Gentlemen, gentlemen!' cried Cicero, having to shout to make himself heard. 'We shall do neither the state nor ourselves any good by bickering at a time of national emergency! Tomorrow there will be a public assembly. I shall report to the people on our deliberations, and I hope,' he added, staring hard at Sura and his cronies, 'that those senators whose bodies may be with us but whose loyalties lie elsewhere will search their hearts overnight and act accordingly. This house stands adjourned.'
Normally after a session ended Cicero liked to stand outside for a while so that any senator who wished to speak to him could do so. It was one of those tools by which he exerted his control over the chamber, this knowledge he had of every man, however minor – his strengths and weaknesses, what he desired and what he feared, what he would put up with and what he would not stomach under any circumstances. But that afternoon he hurried away, his face rigid with frustration. 'It's like fighting the Hydra!' he complained furiously when we got home. 'No sooner do I lop off one head than another two grow back in its place! So while Catilina storms out, his henchmen all sit there as calm as you please, and now Pompey's faction are starting to stir! I have one month,' he ranted, 'just one month – if I can survive that long – before the new tribunes come into office. Then the agitation for Pompey's recall will really get started. And in the meantime we can't even be sure we'll actually have two new consuls in January because of this fucking lawsuit!' And with that he swept his arm across his desk and sent all the documents relating to Murena's prosecution flying across the floor.
In such a mood he was quite unreasonable, and I had learned from long experience that there was no point in attempting to reply. He waited irritably for me to respond and then, failing to get satisfaction, he stamped out in search of someone else to shout at, while I knelt and calmly gathered up all the rolls of evidence. I knew he would come back sooner or later, in order to prepare his address to the people for the following day, but the hours passed, dusk fell and the lamps and candles were lit, and I began to feel alarmed. Afterwards I discovered he had gone with his guards and lictors to the nearby gardens and spent the time pacing round and round so ceaselessly they thought he would wear a groove in the stones. When at last he came back, his face was very pale and grim. He had devised a plan, he told me, and he did not know which frightened him more: the thought that it might fail or the possibility that it might succeed.
The following morning he invited Q. Fabius Sanga to come and see him. Sanga, you may recall, was the senator to whom he had written on the day the murdered boy's body was discovered, requesting information about human sacrifice and the religion of the Gauls. Sanga was about fifty and immensely rich from his investments in Nearer and Further Gaul. He had never aspired to rise beyond the back benches and treated the senate purely as a place in which he could protect his business interests. He was very respectable and pious, lived modestly and was rumoured to be strict with his wife and children. He only spoke in debates about Gaul, on which he was, to be frank, an immense bore: once he started talking about its geography, climate, tribes, customs and so forth, he could empty the chamber quicker than a shout of 'Fire!'
'Are you a patriot, Sanga?' asked Cicero the moment I showed him in.
'I like to think I am, Consul,' replied Sanga cautiously. 'Why?'
'Because I wish you to play a vital part in the defence of our beloved republic.'
'Me?' Sanga looked very alarmed. 'Oh dear. I am rather afflicted by gout …'
'No, no, nothing like that. I merely want you to ask a man to speak to a man, and then to tell me what he replies.'
Sanga noticeably relaxed. 'Well yes, I believe I could do that. Who are these men?'
'One is Publius Umbrenus, a freedman of Lentulus Sura, who often acts as his secretary. He used to live in Gaul, I believe. Perhaps you know him?'
'I do indeed.'
'The other fellow simply needs to be a Gaul of some sort. I don't mind from what region of Gaul especially. Someone known to you. An emissary of one of the tribes would be ideal. A credible figure here in Rome, and one whom you trust absolutely.'
'And what do you want this Gaul to do?'
'I want him to contact Umbrenus and offer to organise an uprising against Roman rule.'
When Cicero had first explained his plan to me the night before, I had been privately appalled, and I anticipated that the strait-laced Sanga would feel the same way: that he would throw up his hands and perhaps even storm out of the room at hearing such a monstrous suggestion. But businessmen, I have since come to realise, are the least shockable of characters, far less so than soldiers and politicians. You can propose almost anything to a businessman and he will usually be willing at least to think about it. Sanga merely raised his eyebrows. 'You want to lure Sura into an act of treason?'
'Not necessarily treason, but I do want to discover if there are any limits to the wickedness that he and his confederates are willing to envisage. We already know that they cheerfully plot assassination, massacre, arson and armed rebellion. The only heinous crime left that I can think of is collusion with Rome's enemies – not,' he added quickly, 'that I regard the Gauls as enemies, but you understand what I mean.'
'Do you have any particular tribe in mind?'
'No. I'll leave that up to you.'
Sanga was silent, turning the matter over. He had a very crafty face. His thin nose twitched. He tapped at it and pulled at it. You could tell he was smelling money. 'I have many trading interests in Gaul, and trade depends on peaceful relations. The last thing I want is to make my Gallic friends any less popular in Rome than they are already.'
'I can assure you, Sanga, if they help me expose this conspiracy, then by the time I've finished they'll be national heroes.'
'And I suppose there's also the question of my own involvement …'
'Your role will be kept entirely secret, except, of course, with your permission, from the governors of Further and Nearer Gaul. They're both good friends of mine and I'm sure they'll want to recognise your contribution.'
At the prospect of money, Sanga smiled for the first time that morning. 'Well, seeing as you put it like that, there is a tribe that might fit the bill. The Allobroges, who control the Alpine passes, have just sent a delegation to the senate to complain about the level of taxes they have to submit to Rome. They arrived in the city a couple of days ago.'
'Are they warlike?'
'Very. If I could hint to them that their petition might be looked at favourably, I'm sure they'd be willing to do something in return …'
After he had gone, Cicero said to me: 'You disapprove?'
'It's not my place to pass judgement, Consul.'
'Oh, but you do disapprove! I can see it in your face! You think it's somehow dishonourable to lay a trap. But shall I tell you what's dishonourable, Tiro? What's dishonourable is to go on living in a city that you are secretly plotting to destroy! If Sura has no treasonous intentions, he will send those Gauls packing. But if he agrees to consider their proposals, I shall have him, and then I shall take him personally to the gates of the city and fling him out, and let Celer and his armies finish him off. And no one can say there is anything dishonourable about that!'
He spoke with such vehemence he almost convinced me.
X
The trial of the consul-elect, Licinius Murena, on a charge of electoral corruption, began on the Ides of November and was scheduled to last two weeks. Servius and Cato led for the prosecution; Hortensius, Cicero and Crassus for the defence. It was a huge affair, staged in the forum, the jury alone numbering nine hundred. These jurors were made up of equal proportions of senators, knights and respectable citizens; there were too many members for the jury to be rigged, which was the intention behind having
such a large number, but it also made it hard to tell which way they would vote. The prosecution certainly laid out a formidable case. Servius had plenty of evidence of Murena's bribery, which he presented in his dry legal manner, and he went on at great length about Cicero's betrayal of their friendship by appearing for the accused. Cato took the stoic line and inveighed against the rottenness of an age in which office could be bought by feasts and games. 'Did you not,' he thundered at Murena, 'seek supreme power, supreme authority, the very government of the state, by pandering to men's senses, bewitching their minds and plying them with pleasures? Did you think you were asking a gang of spoilt youths for a job as a pimp or the Roman people for world dominion?'
Murena was not at all happy with this, and had to be calmed throughout by young Clodius, his campaign manager, who sat beside him day after day and tried to keep his spirits up with witty remarks. As for his defence counsel – well, Murena could hardly have hoped for better. Hortensius, still bruised from his mauling during the trial of Rabirius, was determined to show he could still command a court, and he had a great deal of sport at Servius's expense. Crassus, it was true, was not much of an advocate, but his mere presence on the defence's bench carried weight in itself. As for Cicero, he was being kept in reserve for the final day of the trial, when he was due to make the summing-up to the jury.
Throughout the hearing he sat on the rostra, reading and writing, and only occasionally looking up and pretending to be shocked or amused by what had just been said. I squatted behind him, handing him documents and receiving instructions. Little of this was to do with the case, for as well as having to attend the court each day, Cicero was now in sole charge of Rome, and was sunk up to his ears in administration. From the entire length of Italy came reports of disturbances: in the heel and in the toe, in the knee and in the thigh. Celer had his hands full arresting malcontents in Picenum. There were even rumours that Catilina might be about to take the ultimate step and recruit slaves to the rebel army in return for emancipation – if that happened, the whole country would soon be in flames. More troops had to be levied and Cicero persuaded Hybrida to take command of a new army. He did this partly to show a united front, but chiefly to get Hybrida out of the city, for he was still not entirely convinced of his colleague's loyalty and did not want him in Rome if Sura and the other conspirators decided to make their move. It seemed to me madness to give an entire army to a man he did not trust, but Cicero was no fool. He appointed a senator with almost thirty years' military experience, M. Petreius, as Hybrida's second in command, and gave Petreius sealed orders that were only to be opened in the event that the army looked likely to have to fight.
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