John Roberts: A Point of Law

“Any Roman citizen may bring suit against any other in public court,” Fulvius said. “As you know well, Marcus Porcius.”

Hortensius Hortalus came forward. “That is very true. In fact, it was my impression that you made this very accusation this morning in the extortion court of Marcus Juventius Laterensis. Wherefore do you now, Marcus Fulvius, repeat these charges here in the ancient and sacred gathering place of the comitia, thus bringing disturbance to the grave deliberations of the citizens of Rome as they partake in the most venerable of our Republican institutions, the choosing among candidates for the highest offices?”

This speech would sound stilted and awkward in my mouth, but it was always a joy to hear Hortalus speak. The sonorous vowels of his old-fashioned Latin flowed over the crowd like honey.

Fulvius yanked his hand away from Cato. “I speak forth boldly because I want Rome to know it is a degenerate criminal who demands that the citizens grant him imperium. This man”-Once again he extended the skinny, slightly dirty-nailed finger toward my face, this time shaking with ill-bridled wrath-“laid hands on crucial naval stores, public property, citizens! And sold them for his own profit! He set his slaves to break into the houses of honest Roman citizens, to beat and torture them until they bought their lives with gold! He took great bribes from foreign merchants who trafficked with the very pirates he was sent to suppress. This is the man who wants to preside over a court that will try Roman citizens. This is the man who would go forth to govern a propraetorian province and command legions, no doubt to plunder our provincials and betray our allies!”

“Wasn’t there something about collusion with enemies of Rome?” I asked.

“Beyond all this,” he said, scarcely pausing for breath, “he consorted with the notorious slut Princess Cleopatra, daughter of the degenerate Ptolemy the Flute Player, that disgusting tyrant of Egypt.”

At this time not one Roman in a thousand had ever heard of Cleopatra, who was barely seventeen years old. But her father, Ptolemy, was a worldwide joke.

“King Ptolemy,” said Metellus Scipio, “has been recognized by the Senate of Rome as the lawful king of Egypt and has been accorded the status of Friend and Ally of the Roman People. Not only do you bring frivolous charges against a blameless servant of the Senate and People, but you slander the daughter of an allied prince. I’ve a mind to haul you into court for it.”

“Everyone knows old Ptolemy bribed half the Senate to get that title!” shouted one of Fulvius’s toadies. It was perfectly true, but hardly to the point.

I held up a hand for silence, and in a few seconds the hubbub calmed. “Marcus Fulvius, you bring serious charges against me, and your slanders are worthless. Bring out your witnesses.”

“You will see them in court.”

“Then why are you yammering at me here?” Of course, I knew perfectly well. The man was an unknown, a nobody. He wanted all of Rome to know his name, and by nightfall it surely would.

“I am here,” Fulvius announced grandly, “to invite every citizen of Rome to witness my prosecution of the mighty Caecilius Metellus, whose loathsome guilt I shall prove through the testimony of Roman citizens wronged. The gods of Rome themselves will call for his exile!” This brought cries of admiration for his eloquence, at which he preened.

Hortalus spoke again. “You’ve learned rhetoric from a good master, Fulvius. That last turn of phrase was from Junius Billienus’s prosecution of Minucius, one hundred and sixty-five years ago”-Hortalus’s knowledge of the law was truly comprehensive, admired by Cicero himself, but he paused for effect and let fall a telling addendum-“in the consulship of Paullus and Varro.”

Half unconsciously, everyone there made some gesture to ward off evil, making apotropaic hand signs, fishing out phallic amulets, or reciting protective cantrips. Those lucky enough to be standing near an altar or statue of a god kissed their hands and pressed them to the sacred object. This we always do when that ill-starred year is mentioned, for it was in the consulship of Paullus and Varro that Hannibal met the greatest Roman army ever assembled and annihilated it at Cannae.

At that point a pair of lictors, their fasces shouldered, pushed their way through the crowd and stopped in front of me.

“Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger,” said one of them, “you are summoned to appear before the court of the praetor Marcus Juventius Laterensis at dawn tomorrow.” They looked a bit uncomfortable carrying out this commonplace duty. If I should be elected praetor they might be assigned to me, and they feared I would remember them with disfavor.

“Why wait?” I said. “Let’s go see him now.” I left my spot and began to walk toward the basilica with my whole crowd behind me. I couldn’t accomplish anything at court until my trial began, but I didn’t want to give Fulvius anymore free publicity at my expense.

One of Fulvius’s men, an ugly, scar-faced thug, pushed toward me. “Hey! You can’t-” He got that far when Hermes stepped up to him and punched him in the face. The boy could hit as hard as any professional boxer, and the man went down like a sacrificial ox. My father clouted another over the head with his cane, and the rest fell back before us.

Had something like this occurred just a few years before, there would have been real bloodshed, but Pompey had finally set the city in order, expelled the gangs that had made elections so uproarious, and restored a little of our dignity. In consequence, everybody was bored and ready for a fight.

It was a very short walk to the basilica where Juventius had his court. The lictors had to hold the mob back while we stormed in, interrupting some case he was hearing. Juventius looked up, his face furious.

“I will hear your case tomorrow! Get out of my court!” He was a hard-faced man of no real distinction. Like most, he had done no more than put in the requisite civil and military time and had spent enough on his games as aedile, and so he got his year in the curule chair. Of course, some would say the same of me.

“Tomorrow!” I yelled. “This malicious wretch has had who knows how many months to put his plot together, to rehearse his perjurious witnesses, to bribe and suborn the testimony he needs to prove his false accusations, and I have until tomorrow to prepare my case! Citizens!” I smote my breast dramatically and almost choked on my own cloud of chalk dust. “Is this justice?” I was shouting loud enough to be heard outside and sounds of a gratifying agreement came back to me.

“Lictors!” Juventius shouted. “Throw these trespassers out!” Since his lictors were outside trying to hold the crowd back, they were in something of a quandary.

“What’s all this unseemliness?” The voice was not terribly loud, but all disorder quieted instantly. Pompey entered the basilica, preceded by his twelve lictors. Technically, he was proconsul for Nearer and Farther Spain, but he also had an extraordinary oversight of the grain supply, so he remained in Italy to keep everyone from starving while his legates attended to both Spanish provinces. It was an unheard-of arrangement for a proconsul with full imperium to remain in Italy; but in this, as in everything else, Pompey was a law unto himself.

“Proconsul,” Juventius said, “I’ve summoned Metellus the Younger to appear before me tomorrow, and he has shown up instead today, interrupting court business.”

“You gave him short enough notice. Why should he do less for you?” Then he turned to me. “Decius, you’ve been provoked, but I’ll not have disorder in Roman courts. Go home and get your defense ready. I’m sure you’ll have a good one.”