Clodius, who was plainly drunk, realising he was discovered, then jumped on to the dining table, pulled up his gown, exposing himself to all the assembled company, including the Vestal Virgins, and finally, while his audience was shrieking and swooning, ran out of the room and managed to escape from the house via a kitchen window. Only now did Pompeia appear, with Abra, whereupon Aurelia accused her daughter-in-law and her maid of collusion in this sacrilege. Both denied it tearfully, but the senior Vestal Virgin announced that their protests did not matter: a desecration had occurred, the sacred rites would have to be abandoned, and the devotees must all disperse to their homes at once.
Such was Terentia's story, and Cicero listened to it with a mixture of incredulity, disgust and painfully suppressed amusement. Obviously he would have to take a stern moral line in public and in front of Terentia – it was shocking, he agreed with her absolutely – but secretly he also thought it one of the funniest things he had ever heard. In particular, the image of Clodius waving his private parts in the horrified faces of Rome's stuffiest matrons made him laugh until his eyes watered. But that was for the seclusion of his library. As far as the politics were concerned, he thought Clodius had finally shown himself to be an irredeem able idiot – 'he's thirty, in the name of heaven, not thirteen' – and that his career as a magistrate was finished before it had even started. He also suspected, gleefully, that Caesar might be in trouble as welclass="underline" the scandal had happened in his house, it had involved his wife; it would not look good.
This was the spirit in which Cicero went down to the senate the following morning, one year to the day after the debate on the fate of the conspirators. Many of the senior members had heard from their wives what had happened, and as they stood around in the senaculum waiting for the auspices to be taken, there was only one topic of discussion, or at least there was by the time Cicero had finished his rounds. The Father of the Nation moved solemnly from group to group, wearing an expression of piety and grave seriousness, his arms folded inside his toga, shaking his head and reluctantly spreading the news of the outrage to those who had not already heard it. 'Oh look,' he would say in conclusion, with a glance across the senaculum, 'there's poor Caesar now – this must be a terrible embarrassment for him.'
And Caesar did indeed look grey and grim, the young chief priest, standing alone on that bleak day in December, at the absolute nadir of his fortunes. His praetorship, now drawing to its close, had not been a success: at one point he was actually suspended, and had been lucky not to be hauled into court along with Catilina's other supporters. He was anxiously waiting to hear which province he would be allotted: it would need to be lucrative, as he was greatly in debt to the moneylenders. And now this ludicrous affair involving Clodius and Pompeia threatened to turn him into a figure of ridicule. It was almost possible to feel sorry for him as he watched, with hawkish eyes, Cicero going around the senaculum, relaying the gossip. Rome's cuckolder-in-chief: a cuckold! A lesser man would have stayed away from the senate for the day, but that was never Caesar's style. When the auspices had been read, he walked into the chamber and sat on the praetors' bench, two places along from Quintus, while Cicero went over to join the other ex-consuls on the opposite side of the aisle.
The session had barely begun when the former praetor Cornificius, who regarded himself as a custodian of religious probity, jumped up on a point of order to demand an emergency debate on the 'shameful and immoral' events that were said to have occurred overnight at the official residence of the chief priest. Looking back, this could have been the end for Clodius right then and there. He was not yet even eligible to take his seat in the senate. But fortunately for him, the consul presiding in December was none other than his stepfather-in-law, Murena, and whatever his private feelings on the subject, he had no intention of adding to the family's embarrassment if he could avoid it.
'This is not a matter for the senate,' ruled Murena. 'If anything has happened, it is the responsibility of the religious authorities to investigate.'
This brought Cato to his feet, his eyes ablaze with excitement at the thought of such decadence. 'Then I propose that this house asks the College of Priests to conduct an inquiry,' he said, 'and report back to us as soon as possible.'
Murena had little choice except to put the motion to the vote, and it passed without discussion. Earlier, Cicero had told me he was not going to intervene ('I'll let Cato and the others make hay if they want to; I'm going to keep out of it; it's more dignified'). However, when it came to the point, he could not resist the opportunity. Rising gravely to his feet, he looked directly at Caesar. 'As the alleged outrage occurred under the chief priest's own roof, perhaps he could save us all the trouble of waiting for the outcome of an inquiry and tell us now whether or not an offence was committed.'
Caesar's face was so clenched that even from my old position by the door – to which I had been obliged to return now that Cicero was no longer consul – I could see the muscle twitching in his jaw as he got up to reply. 'The rites of the Good Goddess are not a matter for the chief priest, as he is not even allowed to be present at the time they are celebrated.' He sat down.
Cicero put on a puzzled expression and rose again. 'But surely the chief priest's own wife was presiding over the ceremony? He must have at least some knowledge of what occurred.' He lapsed back into his seat.
Caesar hesitated for a fraction, then got up and said calmly, 'That woman is no longer my wife.'
An excited whisper went around the chamber. Cicero got up again. Now he sounded genuinely puzzled. 'So we may take it, therefore, that an outrage did occur.'
'Not necessarily,' replied Caesar, and once again sat down.
Cicero stood. 'But if an outrage did not occur, then why is the chief priest divorcing his wife?'
'Because the wife of the chief priest must be above suspicion.'
There was a good deal of amusement at the coolness of this reply. Cicero did not rise again, but signalled to Murena that he no longer wished to pursue the matter. Afterwards, as we were walking home, he said to me, not without a hint of admiration, 'That was the most ruthless thing I ever saw in the senate. How long would you say Caesar and Pompeia have been married?'
'It must be six or seven years.'
'And yet I'm certain he only made up his mind to divorce her when I asked him that question. He realised it was the best way to get himself out of a tight corner. You have to hand it to him – most men wouldn't abandon their dog so casually.'
I thought sadly of the beautiful Pompeia and wondered if she was aware yet that her husband had just publicly ended their marriage. Knowing how swiftly Caesar liked to act, I suspected she would be out of his house by nightfall.
When we got home, Cicero went at once to his library to avoid running into Terentia, and lay down on a couch. 'I need to hear some pure Greek to wash away the dirt of politics,' he said. Sositheus, who normally read to him, was ill, so he asked if I would do the honours, and at his request I fetched a copy of Euripides from its compartment, and unrolled it beside the lamp. It was The Suppliant Women he asked to hear, I suppose because on that day the execution of the conspirators was uppermost in his mind, and he hoped that at least in yielding up the bodies of his enemies for an honourable burial he had played the part of Theseus. I had just got to his favourite lines – Rashness in a leader causes failure; the sailor of a ship is calm, wise at the proper time. Yes, and forethought: this too is bravery – when a slave came in and said that Clodius was in the atrium.