Lustrum (25 page)

We hurried home in the now-familiar cocoon of guards and lictors, but there was no sign of Sanga, nor any message from him. Cicero went silently into his study and sat with his elbows on his desk, his thumbs pressed hard to his temples, surveying the piles of evidence laid across it, rubbing at his flesh, as if he might somehow drive into his skull the speech he needed to deliver. I had never felt sorrier for him. But when I took a step towards him to offer my help, he flicked his hand at me without looking up, wordlessly dismissing me from his presence. I did not see him again that evening. Instead Terentia drew me to one side to express her worries about the consul's health. He was not eating properly, she said, or sleeping. Even the morning exercises he had practised since he was a young man had been abandoned. I was surprised she should talk to me in this intimate way, as the truth was she had never much liked me, and took out on me much of the frustration she felt with her husband. I was the one who spent the most time sequestered with him, working. I was the one who disturbed their rare moments of leisure together by bringing him piles of letters and news of callers. Nevertheless, for once she spoke to me politely and almost as a friend. 'You must reason with him,' she said.
'I sometimes believe you are the only one he will listen to, while I can only pray for him.'

When the next morning arrived and there was still no word from Sanga, I began to fear that Cicero would be too nervous to make his speech. Remembering Terentia's plea, I even suggested he might ask for a further postponement. 'Are you mad?' he snapped. 'This isn't the time to show weakness. I'll be fine. I always am.' Despite his bravado, I had never seen him shake more at the start of a speech, or begin more inaudibly. The forum was packed and noisy, even though great masses of cloud were rolling over Rome, releasing occasional flurries of rain across the valley. But as it turned out, Cicero put a surprising amount of humour into that speech, memorably contrasting the claims of Servius and Murena for the consulship.

'You are up before dawn to rally your clients,' he said to Servius, 'he to rally his army. You are woken by the call of cocks, he by the call of trumpets. You draw up a form of proceedings, he a line of battle. He understands how to keep off the enemy's forces, you rainwater. He has been engaged in extending boundaries, you in defining them.' The jury loved that. And they laughed even longer when he poked fun at Cato and his rigid philosophy. 'Rest assured that the superhuman qualities we have seen in Cato are innate; his failings due not to Nature but to his master. For there was a man of genius called Zeno, and the disciples of his teaching are called stoics. Here are some of his precepts: the wise man is never moved by favour and never forgives anyone's mistakes; only a fool feels pity; all misdeeds are equal, the casual killing of a cock no less a crime than strangling one's father; the wise man never assumes anything, never regrets anything, is never wrong, never changes his mind. Unfortunately Cato has seized on this doctrine not just as a topic for discussion but as a way of life.'

'What a droll fellow our consul is,' sneered Cato in a loud voice as everybody laughed. But Cicero hadn't finished yet.

'Now I must admit when I was younger I also took some interest in philosophy. My masters, though, were Plato and Aristotle. They don't hold violent or extreme views. They say that favour can sometimes influence the wise man; that a good man can feel pity; that there are different degrees of wrongdoing and different punishments; that the wise man often makes assumptions when he doesn't know the facts, and is sometimes angry, and sometimes forgives, and sometimes changes his mind; that all virtue is saved from excess by a so-called mean. If you had studied these masters, Cato, you might not be a better man or braver – that would be impossible – but you might be a little more kind.

'You say that the public interest led you to start these proceedings. I don't doubt it. But you slip up because you never stop to think. I am defending Lucius Murena not because of friendship, but for the sake of peace, quiet, unity, liberty, our self-preservation – in short, the very lives of us all. Listen, gentlemen,' he said, turning to the jury, 'listen to a consul who spends all his days and nights in non-stop thinking about the republic. It is vital that there are two consuls in the state on the first day of January. Plans have been laid by men among us now to destroy the city, slaughter the citizens and obliterate the name of Rome. I give you warning. My consulate is reaching its dying days. Don't take from me the man whose vigilance should succeed mine.' He rested his hand on Murena's shoulder. 'Don't remove the man to whom I wish to hand over the republic still intact, for him to defend against these deadly perils.'

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.