That evening a small celebration was held in the home of Caecilia Metella. Rufus was there, glowing and triumphant and drinking a bit too much wine. So were those who had sat with Cicero at the bench of the accused, Marcus Metellus and Publius Scipio, along with a handful of others who had assisted the defence behind the scenes in some way. Sextus Roscius was given a couch at his hostess's right hand; his wife and eldest daughter sat demurely in chairs behind him. Tiro was allowed to sit behind his master so that he could take part in the celebration. Even I was invited and given my own couch to recline upon and assigned my own slave to fetch dainties from the table.
Roscius may have been the guest of honour, but all conversation
revolved around Cicero. His fellow advocates cited the finer points of his oration with gushing praise; they picked at Erurius's performance with devastating sarcasm and laughed out loud recalling the look on his face when Cicero first dared to utter the name of the Golden-Born. Cicero accepted their praise with genial modesty. He consented to drink a modicum of wine; it took very little to bring a flush to his cheeks. Throwing aside his usual caution and no doubt famished from fasting and exertion, he ate like a horse. Caecilia praised his appetite and said it was a good thing he had made a victory party possible, or else all the delicacies she had ordered her staff to prepare in advance — sea nettles and scallops, thrushes on asparagus, purple fish in murex, figpeckers in fruit compote, stewed sow's udders, fattened fowls in pastry, duck, boar, and oysters ad nauseam — would have ended up being dumped in a Subura alley for the poor.
I began to wonder, as I sent my slave after a third helping of Bithynian mushrooms, if the celebration was not a little premature. Sextus Roscius had won his life, to be sure, but he still remained in limbo, his property in the hands of his enemies, his rights as a citizen cancelled by proscription, his father's murder unavenged. He had eluded destruction, but what were his chances of reclaiming a decent life? His advocates were in no mood to worry about the future. I kept my mouth shut, except to laugh at their jokes or to stuff it with more mushrooms.
All night Rufus gazed at Cicero with a passionate longing that seemed invisible to everyone but me; after witnessing Cicero's performance that day, how could I belittle Rufus's unrequited ardour? Tiro seemed quite content, laughing at every joke and even making bold to add a few of his own, but every now and then he glanced towards Roscia with pain in his eyes. Roscia steadfastly refused to look back. She sat in her chair, stiff and miserable, ate nothing, and finally begged her father and her hostess to excuse her. As she hurried from the room she began to weep. Her mother rose and ran after her.
Roscia's exit set off a peculiar contagion of weeping. First it struck Caecilia, who was drinking faster than anyone else. All night she had been vivacious and full of laughter. Roscia's exit plunged her into a sudden funk. 'I know,' she said, as we listened to Roscia sobbing from the hallway, 'I know why that girl weeps. Yes, I do.' She nodded tipsily. 'She misses her dear, dear old grandfather. Oh, my, what a sweet man he was. We must never forget what really brings us together here on this night — the untimely death of my dearest, dearest Sextus. Beloved Sextus. Who knows, had I not been barren all these years…' She reached up and blindly fussed with her hair, pricking her ringer on the silver needle. A bead of blood welled up on her fingertip. She stared at the wound with a shudder and began to cry.
Rufus was instantly at her side, comforting her, keeping her from saying something that might embarrass her later.
Then Sextus Roscius began to weep. He struggled against it, biting his knuckles and contorting his face, but the tears would not be stopped. They ran down his face onto his chin and dripped onto the sea nettles on his plate. He sucked in a halting breath and expelled it in a long, shuddering moan. He covered his face with his hands and was convulsed with weeping. He knocked his plate to the floor; a slave retrieved it. His sobs were loud and choking, like a donkey's braying. It took many repetitions before I recognized the word he cried out again and again: 'Father, Father, Father…'
He had been his usual self for most of the night — quiet and glum, only occasionally consenting to smile when the rest of us roared at some clever joke against Erucius or Chrysogonus. Even when the verdict was announced, so Rufus told me, he had remained oddly impassive. Having lived so long in dread, he held his relief in check until it came bursting out. That was why he wept.
Or so I thought.
It seemed a good time to leave.
Publius Scipio and Marcus Metellus and their noble friends bade us good night and went their separate ways; Rufus stayed behind with Caecilia. I was anxious to sleep in my own bed, but Bethesda was still at Cicero's and the way to the Subura was long. In the good-natured flush of his success, Cicero insisted that I spend a final night beneath his roof.
Had I not gone with him, this storey would have its ending here, amid half-truths and false surmises. Instead I walked beside Cicero, flanked by his torchbearers and bodyguards, through the moonlit Forum and up the spur of the Capitoline until we came to his house.
Thus I came face to face at last with the most fortunate man alive. Thus I learned the truth, which until then I had only dimly suspected.
Cicero and I were chatting amiably about nothing in particular
— the long hot spell, the austere beauty of Rome beneath a full moon, the smells that filled the city at night. We rounded the corner and stepped into the street where he lived. It was Tiro who first noticed the retinue encamped like a small army about the entrance to Cicero's house. He clutched his master's toga and pointed open-mouthed.
We saw the company before they saw us — the empty litter and the litter bearers who leaned against it with folded arms, the torchbearers who slouched against the wall and held their flames at lazy angles. Beneath the flickering light some menials played trigon on the curb, while a few secretaries squinted and scribbled on parchments. There were also a number of armed guards. It was one of these who spotted us standing stock-still at the end of the street and nudged an expensively dressed slave who was busy wagering on the trigon players. The slave drew himself up and came striding haughtily towards us.
'You are the orator Cicero, the master of this house?'
‘I am.'
'At last! You'll excuse the entourage camped on your doorstep —
there seemed to be nowhere else to put everybody. And of course you'll excuse my master for paying a visit at such a late hour; actually we've been here a rather long time, since just after sunset, awaiting your return.'
'I see,' Cicero said dully. 'And where is your master?'
'He waits within. I convinced your doorkeeper that there was no point in keeping Lucius Sulla standing on the doorstep, even if his host was not home to greet him. Come, please.' The slave stepped back and gestured for us to follow. 'My master has been waiting for a long time. He is a very busy man. You can leave your torchbearers and bodyguards here,' he added sternly.
Beside me Cicero took deep, even breaths, like a man preparing to plunge into icy water. I imagined I could hear his heartbeat in the stillness of the night, until I realized it was my own. Tiro still clutched his master's toga. He bit his lip. 'You don't think, master — he wouldn't dare, not in your own home—'
Cicero silenced him by raising his forefinger to his lips. He stepped forward, motioning for the bodyguards to stay behind. Tiro and I followed.