The following day, inaugural eve, it snowed - a heavy fall, of the sort one normally sees only in the mountains. It clad the temples of the Capitol in soft white marble and laid a shroud as thick as a man's hand across the whole of the city. I had never witnessed such a phenomenon before, and nor, despite my great age, have I heard of the like again. Snow in Rome? This surely had to be an omen. But of what?
Cicero stayed firmly in his study, beside a small coal fire, and continued to work on his speech. He placed no faith in portents. When I burst in and told him of the snow, he merely shrugged, 'What of it?' and when tentatively I began to advance the argument of the stoics in defence of augury - that if there are gods, they must care for men, and that if they care for men, they must send us signs of their will - he cut me off with a laugh: 'Surely the gods, given their immortal powers, should be able to find more articulate means of communication than snowflakes.
Why not send us a letter? He turned back to his desk, shaking his head and chuckling at my credulity.
'Really go and attend to your duties, Tiro, and make sure no one else bothers me
Chastened, I went away and checked the arrangements for the inaugural procession, and then made a start on his correspondence. I had been his secretary for sixteen years by this time and there was no aspect of his life, public or private, with which 1 was not familiar. My habit in those days was to work at a folding Table just outside his study, fending off unwanted visitors and keeping an ear open for his summons.
It was from this position that I could hear the noises of the household that morning: Terentia marching in and out of the dining room, snapping at the maids that the winter flowers were not good enough for her husband's new status, and berating the cook about the quality of that night's menu; little Marcus, now well into his second year, toddling unsteadily after her, and shouting in delight at the snow; and darling Tullia, thirteen and due to be married in the autumn, practising her Greek hexameters with her tutor.
Such was the extent of my work, it was not until after noon that I was able to put my head out of doors again. Despite the hour, the street for once was empty. The city felt muffled, ominous; as still as midnight. The sky was pale, the snowfall had stopped, and frost had formed a glittering white crust over the surface. Even now - for such are the peculiarities of memory in the very old - I can recall the sensation of breaking it with the tip of my shoe. I took a last breath of that freezing air and was just turning to go back in to the warmth when I heard, very faint in the hush, the crack of a whip and the sound of men crying and groaning. A few moments later a litter borne by four liveried slaves came swaying around the corner. An overseer trotting alongside waved his whip in my direction. 'Hey, you!' he shouted. 'Is that Cicero's house?' When I replied that it was, he called over his shoulder - 'This is the street!' - and lashed out at the slave nearest him with such force the poor fellow nearly stumbled. To get through the snow lie had to pull his knees up high to his waist, and in this way he floundered on towards me. Behind him a second litter appeared, then a third, and a fourth. They drew up outside the house, and the instant they had set down their burdens the porters all sank down in the snow, collapsing over the shafts like exhausted rowers at their oars. I did not care for the look of this at all.
'It may be Cicero's house,' I protested, 'but he is not receiving visitors.'
'He will receive us!' came a familiar voice from inside the first litter, and a bony hand clawed back the curtain to reveal the leader of the patrician faction in the senate, Q. Lutatius Catulus. He was wrapped in animal skins right up to his pointed chin, giving him the appearance of a large and malevolent weasel.
'Senator,' I said, bowing, 'I shall tell him you're here.'
'And not just I,' said Catulus.
I looked along the street. Clambering stiffly out of the next litter, and cursing his old soldier's bones, was the conqueror of Olympus and father of the senate, Vatia Isauricus, while nearby stood Cicero's great rival in the law courts, the patricians' favourite advocate, Q. Hortensius. He in turn was holding out his hand to a fourth senator, whose shrivelled, nut-brown, toothless face I could not place. He looked very decrepit. I guessed he must have stopped attending debates a long while ago.
'Distinguished gentlemen,' I said, in my most unctuous manner, 'please follow me and I shall inform the consul-elect.'
I whispered to the porter to show them into the tablinum and hurried towards Cicero's study. As I drew close, I could hear his voice in full declamatory flow - 'To the Roman people I say, enough!' - and when I opened the door I found him standing with his back to me, addressing my two junior secretaries, Sositheus and Laurea, his hand outstretched, his thumb and middle finger formed into a circle. And to you, Tiro,' he continued, without turning round, 'I say: not another damned Interruption! What sign have the gods sent us now?
A shower -----?'
The secretaries sniggered.
On the brink of achieving his life's ambition, he had put the perturbations of the previous day out of his mind and was in a great good humour.
'There's a delegation from the senate to see you now
that's what I call an ominous portent. Who's in it?'
'Catulus, Isauricus, Hortensius, and another I don't recognise.'
'The cream of the aristocracy? Here?' He gave me a sharp look over his shoulder. And in this weather? It must be the smallest house they've ever set foot in! What do they want?'
'I don't know.'
'Well, be sure you make a thorough note.' He gathered his
toga
around him and stuck out his chin. 'How do I look?'
'Consular,' I assured him.
He stepped over the discarded drafts of his speech and made his way into the tablinum. The porter had fetched chairs for our visitors but only one was seated - the trembling old senator I did not recognise. The others stood together, each with his own attendant close at hand, clearly uncomfortable at finding themselves on the premises of this low-born 'new man' they had so reluctantly backed for consul. Hortensius actually had a handkerchief pressed to his nose, as if Cicero's lack of breeding might be catching.
'Catulus,' said Cicero affably, as he came into the room. 'Isauricus. Hortensius. I'm honoured.' He nodded to each of the
former
consuls, but when he reached the fourth senator I could see even his prodigious memory temporarily fail him. 'Rabirius,' he concluded after a brief struggle. 'Gaius Rabirius, isn't it?' He held out his hand but the old man did not react and Cicero smoothly turned the gesture into a sweeping indication of the room. 'Welcome to my home. This is a pleasure
'There's no pleasure in it said Catulus.
'It's an outrage,' said Hortensius.
'It's war,' asserted Isauricus, 'that's what it is.'
'Well, I'm very sorry to hear it,' replied Cicero pleasantly. He did not always take them seriously. Like many rich old men they tended to regard the slightest personal inconvenience as proof of the end of the world.
Hortensius clicked his fingers, and his attendant handed Cicero a legal document with a heavy seal. 'Yesterday the Board of Tribunes served this writ on Rabirius.'
At the mention of his name, Rabirius looked up. 'Can I go home?' he asked plaintively.
'Later,' said Hortensius in a stern voice, and the old man bowed his head.
A writ on Rabirius?' repeated Cicero, looking at him with bemusement. And what conceivable crime is he capable of?' He read the writ aloud so I could make a note of it. '"The accused is herein charged with the murder of the tribune L. Saturninus and the violation of the sacred precincts of the senate house.'" He looked up in puzzlement. 'Saturninus? It must be - what? -forty years since he was killed.'
'Thirty-six,' corrected Catulus.
And Catulus should know,' said Isauricus, 'because he was there. As was I.'
Catulus spat out his name as if it were poison. 'Saturninus! What a rogue! Killing him wasn't a crime - it was a public service.' He gazed into the distance as if surveying some grand historical mural on the wall of a temple
:
The
Murder of Saturninus in the Senate House.
'I see him as plainly as I see you. Cicero.
Rebel
-rousing tribune of the very worst kind. He murdered our candidate for consul and the senate declared him a public enemy. Alter that, even the plebs deserted him. But before we could lay our hands on him, he and some of his gang barricaded themselves up on the Capitol. So we blocked the water pipes! That was your idea, Vatia.'
'It was.' The old general's eyes gleamed at the memory. 'I knew how to conduct a siege, even then.'
'Of course they surrendered after a couple of days, and were lodged in the senate house till their trial. But we didn't trust them not to escape again, so we got up on the roof and tore off the tiles and pelted them. There was no hiding place. They ran to and fro squealing like rats in a ditch. By the time Saturninus stopped twitching, you could barely tell who he was.'
And Rabirius was with you both on the roof?' asked Cicero. Glancing up from my notes at the old man - his expression vacant, his head trembling slightly - it was impossible to imagine him involved in such an action.
'Oh yes, he was there,' confirmed Isauricus. 'There must have been about thirty of us. Those were the days,' he added, bunching his fingers into a gnarled fist, 'when we still had some juice in us!'
'The crucial point,' said Hortensius wearily - he was younger than his companions and obviously bored of hearing the same old story - 'is not whether Rabirius was there or not. It's the crime with which he is being charged.'
'Which is what? Murder?'
'Perduellio.'
I must confess I had never even heard of it, and Cicero had to spell it out for me. 'Perduellio,' he explained, 'is what the ancients called treason.' He turned to Hortensius. 'Why use such an obsolete law? Why not just prosecute him with treason, pure and simple, and have done with it?'
'Because the sentence for treason is exile, whereas for perduellio it's death - and not by hanging, either.' Hortensius leaned forward to emphasise his words. If they find him guilty, Rabirius will be crucified.'
'What is this place?' demanded Rabirius, getting to his feet. Where am I?'
Catulus gently pressed him down into his seat. 'Calm yourself, Gaius. We're your friends.'
'But no jury is going to find him guilty,' objected Cicero quietly. 'The poor fellow's clearly lost his brains.'
'Perduellio
isn't heard before a jury
that’s
what's so cunning. It's heard before two judges, specially appointed for the purpose.'
'Appointed by whom?'
'Our new urban praetor, Lentulus Sura.'
Cicero grimaced at the name. Sura was a former consul, a man of great ambition and boundless stupidity, two qualities which in politics often go together.
And whom has Old Sleepy-Head chosen as judges? Do we know?'
'Caesar is one. And Caesar is the other.'
'What?'
'Gaius Julius Caesar and his cousin Lucius are to be selected to hear the case.'
'Caesar
is behind this?'
'Naturally the verdict is a foregone conclusion.'
'But there must be a right of appeal insisted Cicero, now thoroughly alarmed. A Roman citizen cannot be executed without a proper trial.'
'Oh yes,' said Hortensius bitterly. 'If Rabirius is found guilty, of course he has the right of appeal. But here's the catch. Not to a court - only to the entire people, drawn up in full assembly,
on
the Field of Mars
And what a spectacle that will be!' broke in Catulus. 'Can you imagine it? A Roman senator on trial for his life in front of the mob? They'll never vote to acquit him - it would rob them of
their
entertainment.'
'It will mean civil war said Isauricus flatly, 'because we won't stand for it, Cicero. D'you hear us?'
'I hear you he replied, his eyes rapidly scanning the writ.
Which of the tribunes has laid the charge?' He found the
name on the
foot of the document. 'Labienus? He's one of Pompey's men. He's not normally a troublemaker. What's he playing at?'
Apparently his uncle was killed alongside Saturninus said I lortensius with great contempt, 'and his family honour demands vengeance. It's nonsense. The whole thing is just a pretext for Caesar and his gang to attack the senate.'
'So what do you propose to do?' said Catulus. 'We voted for you, remember? Against the better judgement of some of us.'
What do you want me to do?'
'What do you think? Fight for Rabirius's life! Denounce this wickedness in public, then join Hortensius as his defence counsel when the case comes before the people.'
'Well, that would be a novelty said Cicero, eyeing his great rival, 'the two of us appearing together
'The prospect is no more appealing to me than it is to you rejoined Hortensius coldly.
'Now, now, Hortensius, don't take offence. I'd be honoured to act as your colleague in court. But let's not rush into their trap. Let's try to see if we can settle this matter without a trial
'How can it be avoided?'
'I'll go and talk to Caesar. Discover what he wants. See if we can reach a compromise.' At the mere mention of the word 'compromise', the three ex-consuls all started to object at once. Cicero held up his hands. 'He must want something. It will do us no harm at least to hear his terms. We owe it to the republic. We owe it to Rabirius.'
'I want to go home,' said Rabirius plaintively. 'Please can I go home now?'
Cicero and I left the house less than an hour later, the unfamiliar snow crunching and squeaking beneath our boots as we descended the empty street towards the city. Once again we went alone, which I now find remarkable to contemplate - this must have been one of the last occasions when Cicero was able to venture out in Rome without a bodyguard. He did however pull up the hood of his cloak to avoid being recognised. Even the busiest thoroughfares in daylight could not be counted safe that winter.