Imperium

skin—a kind of young Apollo. But his voice when he spoke was surprisingly firm and masculine, marred only by his slangy, mock-plebeian accent, which rendered his family name as Clodius instead of Claudius: another of his fashionable affectations.
    “I am Publius Clodius Pulcher, son of Appius Claudius Pulcher, consul, grandson of consuls in the direct line for the past eight generations, and I come this morning to lay charges in this court against Sergius Catilina for the crimes he lately committed in Africa.”
    At the mention of Catilina’s name there was some muttering and whistling, and a big brute standing close to us shouted, “You want to watch your backside, girlie!”
    But Clodius did not seem in the least concerned. “May my ancestors and the gods bless this undertaking, and bring it to a fruitful conclusion.” He trotted briskly up to Orbius and gave him the postulatus, all neatly bound up in a cylinder, with a seal and a red ribbon, while his supporters applauded noisily, Caelius among them, until Cicero silenced him with a look. “Run and find my brother,” he said to him. “Inform him of what has happened, and tell him we need to meet at once.”
    “That is a job for a slave,” objected Caelius, with a pout, no doubt worried about losing face in front of his friends. “Surely Tiro here could go and fetch him?”
    “Do as you are ordered,” snapped Cicero, “and while you are at it, find Frugi as well. And be grateful I have not yet told your father of the disreputable company you are keeping.” That made Caelius shift himself, and he disappeared out of the Forum toward the Temple of Ceres, where the plebeian aediles were normally to be found at that hour of the morning. “I have spoiled him,” Cicero said wearily, as we climbed the hill back to the house, “and do you know why? It is because he has charm, that most cursed of all the gifts, and I never can stop myself indulging someone with charm.”
    As punishment, and also because he no longer fully trusted him, Cicero refused to let Caelius attend the day’s campaign meeting, but sent him off instead to write up a brief. He waited until he was out of the way before describing the morning’s events to Quintus and Frugi. Quintus was inclined to take a sanguine view, but Cicero was absolutely convinced that he would now have to fight Catilina for the consulship. “I have checked the calendar of the extortion court—you remember what that is like—and the truth is there is simply no chance of Catilina’s case being heard until July, which makes it impossible for him to be a consular candidate in this year. Therefore he comes inevitably into mine.” He suddenly pounded his fist on the desk and swore—a thing he rarely did. “I predicted exactly this outcome a year ago—Tiro is my witness.”
    Quintus said, “Perhaps Catilina will be found guilty and sent into exile?”
    “With that perfumed creature as his prosecutor? A man whom every slave in Rome knows to have been the lover of his own sister? No, no—you were right, Tiro. I should have taken down Catilina myself when I had the chance. He would have been easier to beat in court than he will be on the ballot.”
    “Perhaps it is not too late,” I suggested. “Perhaps Clodius could be persuaded to yield the prosecution to you.”
    “No, he will never do that,” said Cicero. “You had only to look at him—the arrogance of the fellow—a typical Claudian. This is his chance for glory, and he will not let it slip. You had better bring out our list of potential candidates, Tiro. We need to find ourselves a credible running mate—and quickly.”
    In those days consular candidates usually submitted themselves to the electorate in pairs, for each citizen cast two votes for consul and it was obviously good tactics to form an alliance with a man who would complement one’s own strengths during the canvass. What Cicero needed to balance his ticket was someone with a distinguished name who had wide appeal among the aristocracy. In return, he could offer them his own popularity among the pedarii and the lower classes, and the support of the electoral machine which he had built up in Rome. He had always thought that this would be easy enough to arrange when the time came. But now, as we reviewed the names on the list, I saw why he was becoming so anxious. Palicanus would bring nothing to the ticket. Cornificius was an electoral no-hoper. Hybrida had only half a brain. That left