At first I didn't recognize him, having seen him only on his farm, weary from the day's work with dirt on his tunic, or else relaxed and full of wine. Titus Megarus of Ameria looked altogether different, wearing a fine toga, with his hair carefully oiled and combed. His son Lucius, not yet old enough for a toga, was dressed in modest long sleeves. His expression was one of rapturous excitement,
'Gordianus, what a piece of luck that I should find you in this crowd! You don't know how good it is for a country farmer to see a familiar face in the city—'
'It's fantastic!' Lucius interrupted. ‘What a place — I could never have imagined it. So big, so beautiful. And all the people. Which part of the city do you live in? It must be wonderful to live in such a place, where so much is always happening.'
'You'll forgive his manners, I hope.' Titus fondly brushed an unruly forelock from his son's brow. 'At his age I'd never been to Rome either. Of course I've only been here three times in my life — no, four, but once it was only for a day. See over there, Lucius, just as I told you, the Rostra itself — that giant pedestal decorated with the prows of Carthaginian ships taken in battle. The speaker mounts it from stairs around the back, then addresses the audience from the platform on top, where everyone in the square can see him. I once heard the tribune Sulpicius himself speak from the Rostra, in the days before the civil wars.'
I stared at him blankly. On his farm in Ameria I had been struck by his graciousness and charm, by his air of wholesome refinement. Here in the Forum he was as out of his element as a fish out of water, pointing and yammering like any country bumpkin.
'How long have you been in the city?' I finally said. 'Only since last night. We rode from Ameria in two days.' 'Two very long and hard days.' Lucius laughed, pretending to massage his bottom.
'Then you haven't yet seen Cicero?'
Titus lowered his eyes. 'No, I'm afraid not. But I did manage to find the stables in the Subura and return Vespa to her owner.'
'But I thought you were going to arrive yesterday. You were
going to come to Cicero's house, to let him interview you, to see if he could use you as a witness.'
'Yes, well…'
'It's too late now.'
'Yes, I suppose so.' Titus shrugged and looked away.
'I see.' I stepped back. Titus Megarus would not look me in the eye. ‘But you decided to come to the trial anyway. Just to observe.'
His mouth tightened. 'Sextus Roscius is — was — my neighbour. I have more reason to be here than most of these people.' 'And more reason to help him.'
Titus lowered his voice. 'I've helped him already — the petition to Sulla, talking to you. But to speak out publicly, here in Rome — I'm a father, don't you understand? I have a family to consider.'
'And if they find him guilty and execute him, I suppose you'll stay for that as well.'
'I've never seen a monkey,' said Lucius happily. 'Do you suppose they'll really sew him up in a bag—'
'Yes,' I said to Titus, 'be sure to bring the boy to see it. A sight I'm sure he'll never forget.'
Titus gave me a pained, imploring look. Lucius meanwhile was gazing at something beyond my shoulder, oblivious to everything but the excitement of the trial and the glories of the Forum. I turned quickly and slipped into the crowd. Behind me I heard Lucius cry out in his clear, boyish voice, 'Father, call him back — how will we ever find him again?' But Titus Megarus did not call my name.
The crowd suddenly compressed as an unseen dignitary arrived, preceded by a retinue of gladiators who cleared a path straight to the judges' tiers beyond the Rostra. I found myself trapped in an eddy of bodies, pushed back until my shoulders struck something as solid and unyielding as a wall — the pedestal of a statue that rose like an island from the sea of bodies.
I looked upwards over my shoulder, into the flaring nostrils of a gilded war horse. Seated on the back of the beast was the dictator himself, dressed as a general but with his head uncovered so that nothing obscured his jubilant face. The glittering, smiling warrior atop his steed was considerably younger than the man I had seen in the house of Chrysogonus, but the sculptor-had done a credible job in capturing the strong jaw of the original, along with the imperturbable, terrible self-confidence of his eyes. Those eyes gazed out not over the Forum or down onto the crowd or into the judges' tiers, but directly at the speaker's stand atop the Rostra, putting whoever might dare to mount it eye to eye with the state's supreme protector. I stepped back and looked at the pedestal's inscription, which read simply: L. CORNELIUS SULLA, DICTATOR, EVER FORTUNATE.
A hand gripped my arm. I turned and saw Tiro leaning on his crutch. 'Good,' he said, 'you came after all. I was afraid — well, no matter. I saw you from across the way. Here, follow me.' He hobbled through the crowd, pulling me after him. An armed guard nodded at Tiro and let us pass beyond a cordon. We crossed an open space to the very foot of the Rostra itself. The copper-plated beak of an ancient warship loomed over our heads, fashioned in the shape of a nightmarish beast with a horned skull. The thing stared down at us, looking almost alive. Carthage had never lacked for nightmares; when we killed her, she passed them on to Rome.
The space before the Rostra was a small, open square. On one side stood the crowd of spectators from which the statue of Sulla rose like an island; they stood and peered over one another's shoulders, confined behind the cordon maintained by officers of the court. On the other side were rows of benches for friends of the litigants and for spectators too esteemed to stand. At the corner of the square, between the spectators and the Rostra, were the respective benches of the advocates for the prosecution and defence. Directly before the Rostra, in chairs set on a series of low tiers, sat the seventy-five judges chosen from the Senate.
I scanned the faces of the judges. Some dozed, some read. Some ate. Some argued among themselves. Some fidgeted nervously in their seats, clearly unhappy with the duty that had fallen on them. Others seemed to be conducting their regular business, dictating to slaves and ordering clerks about. All wore the senatorial toga that set them apart from the rabble that milled beyond the cordon. Once upon a time, courts were made up of senators and common citizens together. Sulla put an end to that.
I glanced at the accuser's bench where Magnus sat with his arms crossed, scowling and glaring at me with baleful eyes. Beside him, the prosecutor Gaius Erucius and his assistants were leafing through documents. Erucius was notorious for mounting vicious prosecutions, sometimes for hire and sometimes out of spite; he was equally notorious for winning. I had worked for him myself, but only when I was very hungry. He paid well. No doubt he had been promised a very handsome fee to obtain the death of Sextus Roscius.
Erucius glanced up as I passed, gave me a contemptuous snort of recognition, then turned about to wag his finger at a messenger who was awaiting instructions. Erucius had aged considerably since I had last seen him, and the changes were not for the better. The rolls of fat around his neck had become thicker and his eyebrows needed plucking. Because of the plumpness of his purple lips he seemed always to pout, and his eyes had a narrow, calculating appearance. He was the very image of the conniving advocate. Many in the courts despised him. The mob adored him. His blatant corruption, together with his suave voice and unctuous mannerisms, exerted a reptilian fascination over the mob against which homespun honesty and simple Roman virtue could not possibly compete. Given a strong case, he would skilfully whip up the mob's craving to see a guilty man punished. Given a weak case, he was a master at sowing corrosive doubts and suspicions. Given a case with political ramifications, he could be relied upon to remind the judges, subtly but surely, exactly where their own self-interest lay.