But now I am running ahead of myself, and committing the same sin as the hagiographers, by shining the distorting light of the future onto the shadows of the past. Let me simply record that these two outstanding men, with six years difference in their ages but much in common in terms of brains and outlook, stood chatting amiably in the sun, as Crassus mounted the platform and read out the familiar prayer: “May this matter end well and happily for me, for my best endeavors, for my office, and for the People of Rome!” And with that the voting started.
The first tribe into the pens, in accordance with tradition, were the Suburana. But despite all Cicero’s efforts over the years, they did not vote for him. This must have been a blow, and certainly suggested Verres’s bribery agents had earned their cash. But Cicero merely shrugged: he knew that many influential men who had yet to vote would be watching for his reaction, and it was important to wear a mask of confidence. Then, one after another, came the three other tribes of the city: the Esquilina, the Collina, and the Palatina. Cicero won the support of the first two, but not the third, which was scarcely surprising, as it was easily the most aristocratically inclined of Rome’s neighborhoods. So the score was two-two: a tenser start than he would have liked. And now the thirty-one rustic tribes started lining up: the Aemilia, Camilia, Fabia, Galeria…I knew all their names from our office files, could tell you who were the key men in each, who needed a favor and who owed one. Three of these four went for Cicero. Quintus came up and whispered in his ear, and for the first time he could perhaps afford to relax, as Verres’s money had obviously proved most tempting to those tribes composed of a majority of city dwellers. The Horatia, Lemonia, Papiria, Menenia…On and on, through the heat and the dust, Cicero sitting on a stool between counts but always rising whenever the voters passed in front of him after casting their ballots, his memory working to retrieve their names, thanking them, and passing on his respects to their families. The Sergia, Voltina, Pupinia, Romilia…Cicero failed in the last tribe, not surprisingly, as it was Verres’s own, but by the middle of the afternoon he had won the support of sixteen tribes and needed only two more for victory. Yet still Verres had not given up, and could be seen in huddled groups with his son and Timarchides. For a terrible hour, the balance seemed to tilt his way. The Sabatini did not go for Cicero, and nor did the Publilia. But then he just scraped in with the Scaptia, and finally it was the Falerna from northern Campania who put him over the top: eighteen tribes out of the thirty which had so far voted, with five left to come-but what did they matter? He was safely home, and at some point when I was not looking Verres quietly removed himself from the election field to calculate his losses. Caesar, whose own elevation to the Senate had just been confirmed, was the first to turn and shake Cicero’s hand. I could see Quintus triumphantly brandishing his fists in the air, Crassus staring angrily into the distance. There were cheers from the spectators who had been keeping their own tallies-those curious zealots who follow elections as fervently as other men do chariot racing-and who appreciated what had just happened. The victor himself looked stunned by his achievement, but no one could deny it, not even Crassus, who would shortly have to read it out, even though the words must have choked him. Against all odds, Cicero was an aedile of Rome.
A BIG CROWD-they are always bigger after a victory-escorted Cicero from the Field of Mars all the way back to his house, where the domestic slaves were assembled to applaud him over the threshold. Even Diodotus the blind Stoic put in a rare appearance. All of us were proud to belong to such an eminent figure; his glory reflected on every member of his household; our worth and self-esteem increased with his. From the atrium, Tullia darted forward with a cry of “Papa!” and wrapped her arms around his legs, and even Terentia stepped up and embraced him, smiling. I still hold that image of the three of them frozen in my mind-the triumphant young orator with his left hand on the head of his daughter and his right clasped about the shoulders of his happy wife. Nature bestows this gift, at least, on those who rarely smile: when they do, their faces are transformed, and I saw at that moment how Terentia, for all her complaints about her husband, nonetheless relished his brilliance and success.
It was Cicero who reluctantly broke the embrace. “I thank you all,” he declared, looking around at his admiring audience. “But this is not the time for celebrations. That time will come only when Verres is defeated. Tomorrow, at long last, I shall open the prosecution in the Forum, and let us pray to the gods that before too many days have passed, fresh and far greater honor will descend upon this household. So what are you waiting for?” He smiled and clapped his hands. “Back to work!”
Cicero retired with Quintus to his study and beckoned to me to follow. He threw himself into his chair with a gasp of relief and kicked off his shoes. For the first time in more than a week the tension in his face seemed to have eased. I assumed he would now want to begin the urgent task of pulling together his speech, but apparently he had other plans for me. I was to go back out into the city with Sositheus and Laurea, and between us we were to visit all the Sicilian witnesses, give them the news of his election, check that they were holding firm, and instruct them all to present themselves in court the following morning.
“All of them?” I repeated in astonishment. “All one hundred?”
“That is right,” he replied. The old decisiveness was back in his voice. “And tell Eros to hire a dozen porters-reliable men-to carry every box of evidence down to court at the same time as I go down tomorrow.”
“All the witnesses…A dozen porters…Every box of evidence…” I was making a list of his orders. “But this is going to take me until midnight,” I said, unable to conceal my bewilderment.
“Poor Tiro. But do not worry-there will be time enough to sleep when we are dead.”
“I am not worried about my sleep, senator,” I said stiffly. “I was wondering when I was going to have time to help you with your speech.”
“I shall not require your help,” he said with a slight smile, and he raised a finger to his lips, to warn me that I must say nothing. But as I had no idea of the significance of his remark, there was hardly any danger of my revealing his plans, and not for the first time I left his presence in a state of some confusion.
Roll IX
AND SO IT CAME ABOUT that on the fifth day of August, in the consulship of Gnaeus Pompeius Magnus and Marcus Licinius Crassus, one year and nine months after Sthenius had first come to see Cicero, the trial of Gaius Verres began.
Bear in mind the summer heat. Calculate the number of victims with an interest in seeing Verres brought to justice. Remember that Rome was, in any case, swarming with citizens in town for the census, the elections, and the impending games of Pompey. Consider that the hearing pitched the two greatest orators of the day in head-to-head combat (“a duel of real magnitude,” as Cicero later called it). Put all this together, and you may begin to guess something of the atmosphere in the extortion court that morning. Hundreds of spectators, determined to have a decent vantage point, had slept out in the Forum overnight. By dawn, there was nowhere left to stand that offered any shade. By the second hour, there was nowhere left at all. In the porticoes and on the steps of the Temple of Castor, in the Forum itself and in the colonnades surrounding it, on the rooftops and balconies of the houses, on the sides of the hills-anywhere that human beings could squeeze themselves into or hang off or perch on-there you would find the people of Rome.