Cicero cleared his throat and took a long draught of water. He took a deep breath and for a brief moment closed his eyes. 'And now, Judges, we come to the matter of a certain scoundrel and ex-slave, Egyptian by birth, endlessly avaricious by nature — but look, here he comes now with a splendid retinue trailing behind, down from his fine mansion on the Palatine, where he dwells in opulence among senators and magistrates from the oldest families of the Republic'
Alerted by Erucius, Chrysogonus had at last arrived.
His bodyguards made short work of clearing the last row of the gallery, where a few lucky members of the crowd at large had taken the only seats left over by the lesser nobles. Heads turned and a murmur passed through the square as Chrysogonus strode to the centre of the bench and sat. He was surrounded by so many retainers that some were left standing in the aisles.
I turned my head with the rest to catch a glimpse of the legendary golden locks, the lofty Alexander-like brow, the strong, broad jaw which today was set in a hard, grim line. I turned back to look at Cicero, who seemed to be physically girding himself for attack, drawing up his thin shoulders and lowering his forehead like a charging goat.
'I have been making inquiries about this ex-slave,' he said. 'I find he is very wealthy, and not ashamed to show it. Besides his mansion on the Palatine he has a fine country retreat, not to mention a host of farms, all of them on excellent soil and close to the city. His house is crammed with Delian and Corinthian vessels of gold, silver, and copper — among them a mechanical boiling urn which he recently bought at auction at so exorbitant a price that passersby, hearing his final bid, thought that a whole estate was being, sold. The total value of his embossed silver, embroidered coverlets, paintings, and marble statues is beyond computation — unless one might compute the precise amount of plunder that could be looted from various illustrious families and heaped up in one house!
'But these are only his mute possessions. What of his speaking possessions? They comprise a vast household of slaves with the most exquisite skills and natural endowments. I need hardly mention the common trades — cooks, bakers, garment makers, litter bearers, carpenters, upholsterers, dust maids, scrub maids, painters, floor polishers, dishwashers, handymen, stableboys, roofers, and medical experts. To charm his ears and soothe his mind he owns such a host of musicians that the whole neighbourhood rings with the continual sound of voices, strings, drums, and flutes. At night he fills the air with the din of his debaucheries — acrobats perform and lewd poets declaim for his pleasure. When a man leads such a life, Judges, can you imagine his daily expenses? The cost of his wardrobe? His budget for lavish entertainments and sumptuous meals? One should hardly call his dwelling a house at all, but rather a factory of dissolution and vice, and a lodging house for every sort of criminal. The entire fortunes of a Sextus Roscius would hardly last him a month!
'Look at the man himself, Judges — turn your heads and look! With his hair so carefully curled and scented, how he struts about the Forum with his following of Roman-born citizens who disgrace their togas by appearing in the retinue of an ex-slave! See what contempt he has for all those about him, how he considers no one a human being compared with himself) how he puffs himself up with the illusion that he alone possesses all power and wealth.'
I glanced over my shoulder. Anyone who at that moment might be seeing Chrysogonus for the first time would never have taken him for a handsome man. His face had turned so bloated and red that he appeared to be on the verge of apoplexy. His eyes bulged from their sockets. I had never seen so much fury pent up inside a body so rigid. If he had literally exploded I would hardly have been surprised.
Cicero, from the Rostra, could clearly see the effect his words were producing and yet went on without pausing. He, too, looked excited and flushed. He spoke more and more rapidly, and yet maintained complete control, never tripping over a syllable or searching for a word.
'I fear, from my attack on this creature, that some may misapprehend me, that you may assume that I mean to attack the aristocratic cause that has proven triumphant in our civil wars, and their champion, Sulla. Not so. Those who know me know that I longed for peace and reconciliation in the wars, but reconciliation having failed, victory went to the more righteous party. This was due to the will of the gods, the zeal of the Roman people, and of course the wisdom, power, and good fortune of Lucius Sulla. That the victors should have been rewarded and the vanquished punished is not for me to question. But I cannot believe that the aristocracy, roused itself to arms only so that its slaves and ex-slaves should be made free to glut themselves on our goods and property.'
I could stand it no longer. My bladder felt as near to bursting as Chrysogonus's swollen cheeks.
I rose from my seat and sidestepped past nobles who scowled at the distraction and fastidiously tugged up the hem of their togas, as if the mere touch of my foot might soil the cloth. While I escaped down the crowded aisle between the judges and the gallery, I glanced back into the square and felt that odd detachment of an anonymous spectator leaving the heart of the furore — Cicero passionately gesticulated, the crowd looked raptly on, Erucius and Magnus gritted their teeth. Tiro happened to glance towards me. He smiled, then looked suddenly alarmed. He gave me a cramped wave of summons. I smiled and gave him a wave of dismissal in return. He gestured more urgently and began to rise from his seat. I turned my back to him and hurried on. If there was some last, hushed conference he wanted with me, it would have to wait until I had tended to more pressing business. Only later did I realize that he was trying to warn me of the danger at my back.
At the end of the gallery I passed by Chrysogonus and his party. At that moment I imagined I could actually feel the heat that radiated from his blood-red face.
I pushed my way past the throng of retainers and slaves who filled the space behind the gallery. The street beyond was open and empty. Some spectators with no civic pride had already left a stench of urine in the nearest gutter, but my bladder wasn't so weak that I couldn't wait until I arrived at the public latrine. Behind the Shrine of Venus there was a small alcove specifically for the purpose, situated just above the Cloaca Maxima, with a slightly tilted floor and drains at the base of each wall.
An old man with a grizzled beard and a spotless white toga was just leaving as I stepped inside. He nodded as he passed. 'Quite a trial, is it not?' he wheezed.
'It is.’
'This Cicero is not a bad speaker.'
'A fine speaker,' I agreed hurriedly. The old man departed. I stood against the inmost wall, staring at the pitted limestone and holding my breath against the stench. Thanks to an acoustical curiosity I was able to hear Cicero from the Rostra. His voice was echoey but distinct: 'The ultimate aim of the accusers is as clear as it is reprehensible: nothing less than the complete elimination of the children of the proscribed, by any means at their disposal. Your sworn judgment and the execution of Sextus Roscius are to be the first steps in this campaign.'
Cicero had reached his closing arguments. I tried to hurry my bladder. I closed my eyes and the floodgates opened. The sensation of relief was exquisite.
That was when I heard a low whistle behind me and stopped in midstream. I looked over my shoulder to see Mallius Glaucia standing ten paces behind me. He smoothed his hand down the front of his tunic until he closed it around the unmistakable shape of a dagger hidden within the folds at his waist. He fondled the hilt with an obscene grin, as if he were clutching his sex.