John Roberts - A Point of Law

“You’ve locked your teeth into the wrong backside this time, Cato,” said Creticus.

“He denounces this murdered man’s grief-stricken sister as a scandalous woman. And why? Merely because, in her extremity of distress, she performed a womanly gesture of mourning hallowed by a thousand years or more of funerary custom, one immortalized in many poems written by those very ancestors Cato professes to admire. It fell from practice only because the women of his own class now consider themselves too dignified for such low-bred demonstrations. They think such things are beneath them!”

“She wasn’t grieving for her brother!” Cato cried. “The bitch was pissed off that her boyfriend got his head bloodied!” But his shout went unheard in the roar that met Manilius’s harangue.

“And who might be this Fulvius, and his sister Fulvia, whose family Cato defames? They are the grandchildren of the Gracchi! Their great-grandmother was the sanctified Cornelia, mother of the Gracchi! And her father was Scipio Africanus, greatest of Roman generals and savior of the Republic, humbler of Carthage, who defeated Hannibal at Zama! This is the lineage Cato compares disparagingly with that of Caecilius Metellus! And we all remember who robbed that greatest of generals of all his richly deserved honors, don’t we?”

Probably, most of the crowd was a bit hazy about such distant history, but someone out there had been well primed.

“Cato the Censor!” bellowed a Stentorian voice.

“Exactly,” Manilius cried, with a gesture of triumph. “Cato the Censor, great-great-grandfather of the man who so basely denigrates a man whose career was so promising, cut tragically short by murder!”

“He was my great-great- great -grandfather!” Cato cried to no avail. “And he was the finest, most patriotic Roman who ever lived!” Once again his voice was drowned by the roar of the crowd.

“It could be worse,” I told him. “At least they’re mad at you, not me.”

“Patron!” The call came from below, and I looked down. It was young Burrus, looking concerned. “Do you want to make a run for it? We’ll get you out safely.”

“Might be the best idea,” Father said. “Go join Caesar in Gaul, come back when this is all forgotten.”

“No,” I told young Burrus. “I’m not ready to panic yet. I have a few things to say to this political rat. But stay handy. I may want to panic later.”

“How will you play this?” Scipio wanted to know.

“We’ll start out the old way, then see what develops.”

“This man,” Manilius cried, pointing now at me, “unwilling, nay, afraid to face Marcus Fulvius in court, instead set upon him at night and murdered him! He had not the courage to step up to him decently and stab him. Instead, he and his slaves or confederates held Marcus Fulvius from behind and butchered him wretchedly with knives. We all saw that ravaged corpse, did we not? Marcus Fulvius was rent with a score of gashes, as if he were tortured to death rather than given a clean, soldierly thrust in the heart. This was not mere hatred, but the cruelest of malice!”

He was getting the crowd well whipped up. The jury stared at me with stony eyes. Of the tribunes on the bench, the anti-Caesarians glared at me, the pro-Caesarians watched expectantly to see what I would do.

“He’s not a well-trained orator,” Scipio said. “See, he’s getting out of breath already. If you want to save your career, Decius, you’d better step in quick.”

“A moment,” I said. “I want to see what this is winding up to.”

Manilius took a deep breath. “Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger,” he yelled, now getting hoarse, “resorted to murder rather than face charges of malfeasance, of despoiling Roman citizens while on Cyprus. Rather than face trial, he murdered his accuser! What greater proof do you need that he is guilty of all the charges Fulvius laid against him? Malfeasance and murder, Citizens! Is this a man you want sitting in judgment upon you in a curule chair? Does this man deserve to be praetor?”

The crowds shouts and gestures showed a dangerous edge forming. The pro-Metellans and Caesar’s troops tried to shout them down, but it only added to the disorder. The time was past when we had enough support among the plebs to control the Forum.

“Well,” I said, “time to do my bit. Watch yourselves. If I don’t pull this off, they may storm the podium.”

I strode forth, using my best forceful-but-with-anger-restrained stride. I was taller than Manilius and drew myself up to emphasize my stature. From the tribunal bench, Vibius Pansa winked at me and whispered, “Decius, show this puffed-up toad how a real Roman orator handles the likes of him.”

“Publius Manilius Scrofa!” I yelled, as if he weren’t just three steps before me. “You are a liar, a perjuror, and an unworthy servant of the people of Rome! Begone before you disgrace yourself and your sacrosanct office further!”

He was nonplussed. He hadn’t expected this.

“Metellus, by what right do you speak? Cato is your advocate!”

I had two things in my favor: he had split the crowd’s wrath between Cato and me, and I was still a popular man.

“I speak forth because I am a servant of the Senate and People of Rome and because I am a better man than you!” The crowd calmed down, expecting something even better than they had heard so far. Well, I intended to give it to them. I turned to face that great sea of citizenry.

“Romans! Have I, Decius Caecilius Metellus the Younger, not served the state indefatigably since I shaved off my first beard?”

My supporters led the cheer, and it was picked up, weakly at first. “Have I not, as Cato has said, prosecuted the wicked and protected the innocent?” More cheers. “And when I was aedile, twice , Citizens, did I not provide you with wonderful games?”

Now the crowd remembered why they liked me. The cheers were loud and heartfelt. Everyone had loved those shows.

“Who else,” I said, “has ever brought that many famous champions out of retirement for your entertainment? Could any other man have provided you with that final combat in the funeral munera for Metellus Celer, when the great Draco and the equally illustrious Petraites, greatest champions of our time, contended for a full hour, brave and skillful as Homeric heroes? Petraites spent six months recovering from his wounds!”

Now the cheers were genuinely ecstatic. Some openly wept with enjoyment at the memory. These people really loved those spectacles, and at that moment I didn’t begrudge a single denarius of the fortune I had spent on them.

“What are you babbling about, you buffoon?” Manilius cried. Somehow he had lost control of the situation.

I strode over to him, stood no more than a foot before him, and studied his face.

“What are you doing?”

“Speaking of wounds,” I said, conversationally but loud enough for everyone to hear, “where are yours? I’m looking for scars. I don’t see any. You see this?” I drew a finger along the ragged scar that decorates my face, “An Iberian spear made this. That was in the rebellion of Sertorius. I haven’t been able to get a decent shave in all the years since.”

Now I turned to face the crowd. Did they think Fulvia was the only one who could strip in public? Well, now they had a show coming. I flung off my toga, making it unfurl dramatically as it flew through the air. Hermes caught it adroitly. Then I tore my tunic open with a loud rip, letting it fall to drape around my hips.

“Citizens! This,” here I pointed at an ugly puncture on my left shoulder, “was made by a German spear! And this,” I displayed a foot-long gash along my ribs, “is the mark of a Gallic longsword! Here and here,” two deep punctures on my right side, “arrows shot from a pirate ship off Cyprus! And this,” I hauled up the skirt of my tunic, exposing a truly awesome scar that ran from my left hipbone all the way down to the knee, “is where I was run over by a British war chariot!” The air filled with gasps and murmurs of admiration. This was a real crowd pleaser. The night before, Julia had touched up my scars with cosmetics to make them show better.