"Well, good, you're both here for the real speech. Cicero's about to begin. Come, let's see if we can't move up a bit…"
We managed to move considerably closer, so that I was able to see quite clearly the figure now stepping before the judges. Slender and frail when I first met him long ago, Cicero had become plump and thick-jowled in the years of his prosperity. The political triumph of his con-sulship had been followed by near-ruin, when his enemies managed to banish him; counterlegislation passed by Cicero's allies eventually welcomed him back, but not before the great man passed eighteen months in exile, during which time much of his property was destroyed by the mob. In his months away from Rome, Cicero had grown lean with worry, or so it was said. From the way his toga clung to his frame as he swaggered before the court, it looked to me that he had made short work of regaining both his girth and his stature.
Clodius had once been Cicero's political ally, then his nemesis. Even now Clodius was attempting to keep Cicero from rebuilding his ruined house on the Palatine, claiming that the property had been legally seized by the state and sanctified for religious use, and so could not be recovered by Cicero. The two enemies waged war against one another in every arena they could find-on the floor of the Senate, in courts of law, in the reading of omens by priests and augurs. Between them burned the kind of hatred that can be extinguished only by death.
That was reason enough for Cicero to hate Clodia, perhaps, since she was her brother's staunchest supporter and a party to his schemes. But what of the vague rumor which Catullus had repeated, about a stunted love affair between Clodia and Cicero, back when her brother and Cicero were allies? Perhaps he hated Clodia for reasons that had nothing to do with politics, or with Clodius. That would help to account for what he did to her that day. Or perhaps, like a good advocate, he simply did whatever was necessary to make sure Marcus Caelius was acquitted of the charges against him.
As I watched Cicero deliver the final oration of the trial-one of the finest of his career, some would later say-I felt as if I were watching a play. Like a play, the action seemed distant from me, the dialogue out of my control; I was a spectator, powerless to stop or alter the course of unfolding events. But a playwright strives to elucidate some truth, whether mundane and comic or grand and tragic. Where was the truth in this strange play? Who was the villain, and who the tragic figure? It seemed to me that I was witnessing the sort of play where the action becomes increasingly tangled and absurd, until there is no way out of the mess except to bring on a god or a messenger to deliver a speech that makes sense of everything. But the messenger from offstage had already arrived: Eco, bringing the slave girl up from the south. Now I knew the truth about Dio's death, but no one on the stage seemed to know-not Cicero, nor Caelius, nor Clodia. For me to reveal what I knew, to play the part of the god from the machine, was impossible. How could I incriminate my own wife?
I could only watch, helpless and mute, as the battle between Clodia and Caelius reached its climax. Poison, deception and false accusation had already been deployed to attack and counterattack. Now Cicero, like a hoary old general, was brought out to deliver the final assault. Words would be his weapon. She doesn't understand the power of words, Catullus had said of Clodia. She was about to learn, in front of all Rome.
"Judges," Cicero began, bowing his head respectfully and surveying the long rows of the jurymen, looking from face to face. "If there should be anyone present here today unfamiliar with our law courts and their customs, he must wonder at the terrible urgency of this particular case, seeing that all other public business has been suspended for the holiday and this is the one and only trial being held in the midst of public festivities and games. Such an observer would undoubtedly conclude that the defendant must be quite a dangerous fellow, a hardened renegade guilty of some crime so terrible that the whole state will collapse unless his transgressions are dealt with at once!
"One would explain to such an observer that we have a special law which deals with criminal behavior against the state. When traitorous Roman citizens take up arms to obstruct the Senate, or to attack magistrates, or to try to destroy the government itself, we are obliged to proceed with trying such men regardless of holidays. Our observer would surely not object to such a law, dedicated to the preservation of the state itself. But he would want to know exactly what sort of charges were involved in the present case. Just imagine his reaction at being informed that no real crime or outrage was before the court at all. Instead, a talented, vigorous, well-liked young fellow is being prosecuted by the son of a man against whom the defendant recently brought charges. Furthermore, the whole prosecution has been organized and financed by a whore."
The crowd collectively sucked in a breath. There were a few out-bursts of laughter which rang all the louder in the general silence. Caelius had made fancy allusions to Clytemnestra, and convoluted puns about Cos and Nola. He had even held up a pyxis and alluded to the story of the semen-filled box. But Cicero, in the first moments of his speech, had called Clodia an outright prostitute. It was an announcement and a warning: nothing would be held back. I tried to see Clodia's reaction, but the crowd had shifted and my view was blocked.
"What would our hypothetical observer think of all this?" Cicero continued. "No doubt he would conclude that the chief prosecutor should be excused for bringing such a flimsy case-Atratinus is very young and inexperienced, and his devotion to his father is understandable. Our observer would further conclude that the malicious tantrums of the woman in question ought to be better controlled, or at least confined to her bedroom. Also, good judges, our observer would conclude that you are being sorely overworked, since everyone but you has the day off!"
This brought a round of appreciative laughter from the front rows and a lessening of tension, except from the prosecutor's section, where I caught a glimpse of Clodia. Her face looked so rigid she seemed to be wearing a mask.
Cicero continued with a defense of Caelius's character. He dismissed whatever political differences might have put a distance between himself and his young protege. That was all over now. If Caelius had made mistakes, he was entitled to do so, as was every young man so long as he conducted himself with integrity and honesty.
"Ah, but the prosecutors have accused Caelius of being in debt, and thus, presumably, vulnerable to bad influences and a life of crime. They have demanded that he hand over his account books for inspection. My reply to this is simple. There are no account books! A young man like Caelius, still subject to his father's authority, doesn't keep his own account books. The prosecution says that Caelius has borrowed heavily, but they will be unable to show any proof of this. Ah, but he must have been living beyond his means, they say, because of that luxurious apart-ment he kept on the Palatine, which he rented from Clodius for the amazing sum (so they tell us) of thirty thousand sesterces a year. The figure is absurd! Ten thousand sesterces is more like it. Well, you can see what's going on here when you realize that Clodius recently put the building up for sale and is asking a lot more than it's worth. The pros-ecution is doing Clodius a favor by inflating his rent receipts, so that he can swindle some fool into paying him three times what that rat-infested eyesore is really worth!"
The crowd laughed. Cicero shook his head in mock dismay, but seemed barely able to keep from smiling at his own cleverness. A serious trial about the assassination of foreign dignitaries had suddenly become an inquiry into malicious female revenge and shady real estate dealings.