Erucius cast his eyes downward to assume a countenance of abject sorrow. 'But, esteemed Judges, my task is not merely to bring a murderer to justice, but to see that a far older, far deeper principle than the laws of mortal men is upheld in this court today. For the crime of which Sextus Roscius is guilty is not simply murder — and that is surely horrifying enough — but parricide.'
Abject sorrow became abject horror. Erucius furrowed the plump wrinkles of his face and stamped his foot, 'Parricide!' he cried, so shrilly that even at the far edges of the crowd men gave a start. I imagined Caecilia Metella quivering in her litter and covering her ears.
'Imagine it, if you will — no, do not back away from the hideousness of this crime, but look straight into the jaws of the ravening beast. We are men, we are Romans, and we must not let our natural revulsion rob us of the strength to face even the foulest crime. We must swallow our gorge and see that justice is done.
'Look at that man who sits at the bench of the accused, with armed guards at his back. That man is a murderer. That man is a parricide! I call him "that man" because it pains me to speak his name: Sextus Roscius. It pains me because it was the same name that his father bore before him, the father that man put into his grave — a once-honourable name that now drips with blood, like the bloody tunic that was found on the old man's body, shredded to rags by his assassins' blades. That man has turned the fine name his father gave him into a curse!
'What can I tell you about.. Sextus Roscius?' Erucius infused the name with all the considerable loathing his voice and countenance could muster. 'In Ameria, the town he comes from, they will tell you he is far from a pious man. Go to Ameria, as I have done, and ask the townsfolk when they last saw Sextus Roscius at a religious festival. They will hardly know of whom you speak. But then remind them of Sextus Roscius, the man accused of killing his own father, and they will give you a knowing look and a sigh and avert their eyes for fear of the gods' wrath.
'They will tell you that Sextus Roscius is in many ways a mystery — a solitary man, unsociable, irreligious, boorish, and curt in his few dealings with others. In the community of Ameria he is well known — or should I say notorious? — for one thing and one thing only: his lifelong feud with his father.
'A good man does not argue with his father. A good man honours and obeys his father, not only because it is the law, but because it is the will of heaven. When a bad man ignores that mandate and openly feuds with the man who gave him life, then he steps onto a path that leads to all manner of unspeakable crime — yes, even to the crime that we have assembled here to punish.
‘What caused this feud between father and son? We do not really know, though the man who sits beside me at the accuser's bench, Titus Roscius Magnus, can attest to having seen many sordid examples of this feud at first hand; as can another witness I may call, after the defence has its say, the venerable Capito. Magnus and Capito are each cousins of the victim, and of that man as well. They are respected citizens of Ameria. They watched for years with dread and disgust as Sextus Roscius disobeyed his father and cursed him behind his back. They watched in dismay as the old man, to protect his own dignity, turned his back on the abomination that had sprung to manhood from his own seed.
'Turned his back, I say. Yes, Sextus Roscius pater turned his back on Sextus Roscius filius, no doubt to his ultimate regret — for a prudent man does not turn his back on a viper, nor on a man with the soul of an assassin, even his own son, not unless he wishes to receive a knife in the back!'
Erucius pounded his fist against the balcony of the Rostra and stared wide-eyed above the heads of the crowd, held the pose for a moment and then drew back to catch his breath. The square was strangely hushed after the thunder of his voice. He had by this point worked himself into a fine sweat He clutched at the hem of his toga and dabbed it against his streaming jowls. He raised his eyes and looked to heaven, as if seeking relief from the gruelling ordeal of seeking justice. In a plaintive voice, pitched just loud enough for all to hear, he muttered, 'Jupiter, give me strength!' I saw Cicero cross his arms and roll his eyes. Meanwhile Erucius pulled himself together, stepped forward to the Rostra with bowed head and began again.
'That man — why bother to say his befouled name when he dares to show his face in public, where any decent man may see it and recoil in horror? — that man was not the only offspring of his father. There was a second son. His name was Gaius. How his father loved him, and why not? From all accounts he was the exemplar of what every young Roman should be: pious towards the gods, obedient to his father, aspiring to every virtue, a young man in all ways agreeable, charming, and refined. How strange that a man could have two sons so different from each other! Ah, but then the sons had different mothers. Perhaps it was not the seed that was polluted, then, but the grounds in which it was planted. Consider: two seeds from the same grape are planted in different soil. One vine grows strong and lovely, bearing sweet fruit that yields a heady wine. The other is stunted and strange from the first, gnarled and pricked with thorns; its fruit is bitter and its wine is poison. I name the first vine Gaius, and the other Sextus!'
Erucius mopped his face, shuddered in revulsion, and went on. 'Sextus Roscius pater loved one son and not the other. Gaius he kept close to him always, proudly displaying him to the finest society, showering him in public with kindness and affection. Sextus filius, on the other hand, he kept as far from him as he could, relegating him to the family's farms in Ameria, keeping him from view as if he were a thing of shame not to be shown among decent folk. So deep did this division of affections run that Roscius pater thought long and hard about disinheriting his namesake completely and naming Gaius his sole heir, even though Gaius was the younger of his sons.
'Unfair, you may say. It is better when a man treats all his sons with equal respect. When he goes about choosing favourites he asks for nothing but trouble in his own generation and the next. True, but in this case I think we must trust the judgment of the elder Sextus Roscius. Why did he despise his firstborn so much? I think it must be that he, better than any other man, could see what wickedness lurked in the breast of young Sextus Roscius, and he recoiled from it. Perhaps he even had a presentiment of the violence that his son might one day wreak on him, and that was why he kept him at such a distance. Alas, the precaution was not enough!
'The tale of the Roscii ends in manifold tragedy — a series of tragedies that cannot be set right, but only avenged, and only by you, esteemed Judges. First, the untimely death of Gaius Roscius. With him vanished all his father's hopes for the future. Consider is it not the greatest joy of existence to give life to a son, and to see in him an image of yourself? To rear and educate him so that you are renewed as he grows? I know, I speak as a father myself. And will it not be a blessing on departing this life to leave behind, as your successor and heir, a being sprung from yourself? To leave him not only your estate, but your accumulated wisdom, and the very flame of life passed from parent to child to pass on to his sons, so that when your mortal body fades away, you will live on in your descendents?