A Point of Law(85)

“We are!” Father shouted.

“Then ascend the podium and address the people of Rome.”

We climbed the steps in stately fashion; a gaggle of Metelli, along with Cato and a number of prominent men, some of them exconsuls, to attest to my character.

“Who speaks for you?” Manilius demanded.

Cato stepped forward. “I am Senator Marcus Porcius Cato, a friend of the accused, and I will prove his innocence of these base charges.”

“Proceed,” said Manilius. He pointed to the slave who stood by the old bronze water clock. The man pulled out its stopper and water began to drain into a large glass beaker that was graduated to reveal the passing minutes. Opening arguments would be over as soon as the beaker was full. A good Roman lawyer could time his argument to the syllable.

“First,” Cato began, “I must protest this wretched, unconstitutional trial. The contio that called for it was informal, and there were no sacrifices. Auguries were not taken. The gods of the state were not called upon to witness, and so it is invalid. The comitia tributa has no power to try a capital case, and I assure everyone here that that is just what they will try to make of it!” Cato had an unpleasant voice, but he also had a masterful command of a sort of old-fashioned, almost sacerdotal Latin that was extremely impressive in events of this nature. He completely eschewed the florid, embroidered rhetoric practiced by Hortalus.

Then Cato launched into his oration. He spoke of the glory of my family, naming its many censors, consuls, and praetors, and of the battles won by Metellan generals. He spoke of my early career, of my service in the rebellion of Sertorius, in the suppression of the Catilinarian conspiracy, in the war in Gaul, most recently in my little campaign that very year against an outbreak of piracy near Cyprus.

He then launched into my political career, citing my many investigations against criminals and criminal activities, my quaestorship, during which I had infiltrated Catilina’s ranks, my unprecedented double aedileship, when I had not only cleaned up the streets and sewers, but had vigorously prosecuted the crooked building contractors whose shoddy practices had cost so many citizens lives (nobody counted the dead slaves and foreigners). He cited the games I had celebrated, including the funeral games for Metellus Celer, at which I had presented a munera where an uncommon number of famous champions had come out of retirement to fight. Milo had been responsible for this, but I got the credit. There were murmurs of appreciation from the crowd. Everybody had loved those games.

When the beaker was full, Cato stopped and my character witnesses came forward. Some swore before all the gods that I was as virtuous a Roman as any since Numa Pompilius. All swore that I was incorruptible (actually, few people had considered me worth corrupting). All extolled the worthiness of my ancestors. Those who had been praetors told of important investigations I had undertaken for them. At one time I had been something of a professional iudex.

Then Cato resumed his oration. The water clock was reset for this phase, always the most enjoyable part of a trial: denunciation of the other side.

“Who,” cried Cato, “was this Marcus Fulvius? He was a nobody from nowhere. He was a resident, not of Rome, but of Baiae, that sordid cesspool of every sort of luxury, vice, and perversion! Can there be any doubt that Marcus Fulvius was himself the very embodiment of all that is vile, disgusting, and un-Roman? Citizens! Did you all not, just yesterday, see that insolent fool’s own sister, the most notorious whore in Rome, climb upon the Rostra—that monument of our ancient greatness—and put on the most unholy, scandalous, and lascivious display ever to offend the eyes of the public?” At this the audience cheered and whistled. “Has Rome seen so horrid a woman since Tullia ran over her own father with a chariot?”

Here Curio and his claque booed, hissed, shouted, and made rude gestures. Cato ignored them.

“The gods of Rome,” he went on, working himself up to a foaming frenzy, “must be appalled! First, that we even allow this hideous family to reside among us, polluting the sacred precincts of Romulus. Second, that we should even consider a trial of this virtuous young Roman for the murder of one of them! Rather, the Senate should declare days of thanksgiving to the gods for the death of Marcus Fulvius. There should be holidays and rejoicing! We should deck the temples in festive array, people should feast their neighbors and give sacrifices in gratitude that Marcus Fulvius no longer offends the sight of gods and men!”

“Cato’s in fine form today,” muttered someone behind me.

“This is extreme even for him,” Father said. “There’s such a thing as going too far in a denunciation.”