'You are up before dawn to rally your clients,' he said to Servius, 'he to rally his army. You are woken by the call of cocks, he by the call of trumpets. You draw up a form of proceedings, he a line of battle. He understands how to keep off the enemy's forces, you rainwater. He has been engaged in extending boundaries, you in defining them.' The jury loved that. And they laughed even longer when he poked fun at Cato and his rigid philosophy. 'Rest assured that the superhuman qualities we have seen in Cato are innate; his failings due not to Nature but to his master. For there was a man of genius called Zeno, and the disciples of his teaching are called stoics. Here are some of his precepts: the wise man is never moved by favour and never forgives anyone's mistakes; only a fool feels pity; all misdeeds are equal, the casual killing of a cock no less a crime than strangling one's father; the wise man never assumes anything, never regrets anything, is never wrong, never changes his mind. Unfortunately Cato has seized on this doctrine not just as a topic for discussion but as a way of life.'
'What a droll fellow our consul is,' sneered Cato in a loud voice as everybody laughed. But Cicero hadn't finished yet.
'Now I must admit when I was younger I also took some interest in philosophy. My masters, though, were Plato and Aristotle. They don't hold violent or extreme views. They say that favour can sometimes influence the wise man; that a good man can feel pity; that there are different degrees of wrongdoing and different punishments; that the wise man often makes assumptions when he doesn't know the facts, and is sometimes angry, and sometimes forgives, and sometimes changes his mind; that all virtue is saved from excess by a so-called mean. If you had studied these masters, Cato, you might not be a better man or braver that would be impossible but you might be a little more kind.
'You say that the public interest led you to start these proceedings. I don't doubt it. But you slip up because you never stop to think. I am defending Lucius Murena not because of friendship, but for the sake of peace, quiet, unity, liberty, our self-preservation in short, the very lives of us all. Listen, gentlemen,' he said, turning to the jury, 'listen to a consul who spends all his days and nights in non-stop thinking about the republic. It is vital that there are two consuls in the state on the first day of January. Plans have been laid by men among us now to destroy the city, slaughter the citizens and obliterate the name of Rome. I give you warning. My consulate is reaching its dying days. Don't take from me the man whose vigilance should succeed mine.' He rested his hand on Murena's shoulder. 'Don't remove the man to whom I wish to hand over the republic still intact, for him to defend against these deadly perils.'
He spoke for three hours, stopping only now and again to sip a little diluted wine or to mop the rain from his face. His delivery became more and more powerful as he went on, and I was reminded of some strong and graceful fish that had been tossed, apparently dead, back into the water inert at first and belly-up; but then suddenly, on finding itself returned to its natural element, with a flick of its tail, it revives. In the same way Cicero gathered strength from the very act of speaking, and he finished to prolonged applause not only from the crowd but from the jury. It proved to be a good omen: when their ballots were counted, Murena was acquitted by a huge majority. Cato and Servius left at once in a state of great dejection. Cicero lingered on the rostra just long enough to congratulate the consul-elect, and to receive many slaps on the back from Clodius, Hortensius and even Crassus, and then we headed home.
The instant we came into the street, we noticed a fine carriage drawn up outside the house. As we came closer, we saw that it was crammed with silver plate, statues, carpets and pictures. A wagon behind it was similarly laden. Cicero hurried forward. Sanga was waiting just inside the front door, his face as grey as an oyster.
'Well?' demanded Cicero.
'The conspirators have written their letters.'
'Excellent!' Cicero clapped his hands. 'Have you brought them with you?'
'Wait, Consul. There's more to it than that. The Gauls don't actually have the letters yet. They've been told to go to the Fontinalian Gate at midnight, and be ready to leave the city. They'll be met there by an escort, who'll give them the letters.'
'And why do they need an escort?'
'He'll take them to meet Catilina. And then from Catilina's camp they are to go directly to Gaul.'
'By the gods, if we can get hold of those letters, we will have them at last!' Cicero strode up and down the narrow passageway. 'We must lay an ambush,' he said to me, 'and catch them red-handed. Send for Quintus and Atticus.'
'You'll need soldiers,' I said, 'and an experienced man to command them.'
'He must be someone we can trust absolutely.'
I took out my notebook and stylus. 'What about Flaccus? Or Pomptinus?' Both men were praetors with long experience in the legions, and both had proved steadfast throughout the crisis.
'Good. Get them both here now.'
'And the soldiers?'
'We could use that century from Reate. They're still in their barracks. But they're to be told nothing of their mission. Not yet.'
He called for Sositheus and Laurea and rapidly issued the necessary instructions, then he turned to say something to Sanga, but the passageway behind him was empty, the front door open, and the street deserted. The senator had fled.
Quintus and Atticus arrived within the hour, and shortly afterwards the two praetors also turned up, greatly bemused by this dramatic summons. Without going into details, Cicero said simply that he had information that a delegation of Gauls would be leaving the city at midnight, together with an escort, and that he had reason to believe they were on their way to Catilina with incriminating documents. 'We need to stop them at all costs, but we need to let them get far enough along the road that there can be no doubt that they're leaving the city.'
'In my experience an ambush at night is always more difficult than it sounds,' said Quintus. 'In the darkness some are bound to escape taking your evidence with them. Are you sure we can't simply seize them at the gate?'
But Flaccus, who was a soldier of the old school, having seen service under Isauricus, said immediately, 'What rubbish! I don't know what army you served in, but it should be easy enough. In fact I know just the spot. If they're taking the Via Flaminia, they'll have to cross the Tiber at the Mulvian Bridge. We'll trap them there. Once they're halfway across, there's no chance of escape, unless they're willing to throw themselves into the river and drown.'
Quintus looked very put out, and from that moment on effectively washed his hands of the whole operation, so much so that when Cicero suggested he should join Flaccus and Pomptinus at the bridge, he replied sulkily that it was clear his advice was not needed.
'In that case I shall have to go myself,' said Cicero, but everyone immediately objected to that on the grounds that it was not safe. 'Then it will have to be Tiro,' he concluded, and seeing my look of horror, he added: 'Someone has to be there who isn't a soldier. I shall need a clear account written up by an eyewitness that I can give to the senate tomorrow, and Flaccus and Pomptinus will be too busy directing operations.'
'What about Atticus?' I suggested somewhat impertinently, I realise now, but fortunately for me, Cicero was too preoccupied to notice.
'He'll be in charge of my security in Rome, as usual.' Behind his back, Atticus shrugged at me apologetically. 'Now, Tiro, make sure you write down everything they say, and above all else, secure those letters with their seals unbroken.'
'What about Atticus?' I suggested somewhat impertinently, I realise now, but fortunately for me, Cicero was too preoccupied to notice.
'He'll be in charge of my security in Rome, as usual.' Behind his back, Atticus shrugged at me apologetically. 'Now, Tiro, make sure you write down everything they say, and above all else, secure those letters with their seals unbroken.'
We set off on horseback well after darkness fell: the two praetors, their eight lictors, another four guards, and finally and reluctantly, me. To add to my woes I was a terrible rider. I bounced up and down in my saddle, an empty document case banging against my back. We clattered over the stones and through the city gate at such speed, I had to wind my fingers into the mane of my poor mare to stop myself falling off. Fortunately she was a tolerant beast, no doubt especially reserved for women and idiots, and as the road stretched down the hill and across the plain, she plunged on without requiring guidance from me, and so we managed to keep pace with the horses ahead of us.
It was one of those nights when the sky is an adventure all to itself, a brilliant moon racing through motionless oceans of silvery cloud. Beneath this celestial odyssey, the tombs lining the Via Flaminia silently flickered as if in a lightning storm. We trotted along steadily until, after about two miles, we came to the river. We drew to a halt and listened. In the darkness I could hear rushing water, and looking ahead I could just make out the flat roofs of a couple of houses and the silhouettes of trees, sharp against the hurtling sky. From somewhere close by a man's voice demanded the password. The praetors replied 'Aemilius Scaurus!' and suddenly, from both sides of the road, the men of the Reate century rose out of the ditches, their faces blackened with charcoal and mud. The praetors quickly divided this force in two. Pomptinus with his men was to remain where he was, while Flaccus led forty legionaries over to the opposite bank. For some reason it seemed to me safer to be with Flaccus, and I followed him on to the bridge. The river was wide and shallow and flowing very fast across the big flat rocks. I peered over the edge of the parapet to where the waters crashed and foamed against the pillars more than forty feet below, and I realised what an effective trap the bridge made, that jumping in to avoid capture would be an act of suicide.