Imperium

qualities” and I give it here, for it was nicely put: “to attach many by friendship, and to retain them by devotion; to share what he possessed with all, and to be at the service of all his friends in time of need, with money, influence, effort, and—if necessary—with reckless crime; to control his natural temper as occasion required, and to bend and turn it this way and that; to be serious with the strict, easy with the liberal, grave with the old, amiable with the young, daring with criminals, dissolute with the depraved…” This was the Catilina who was waiting for us that day. He had already heard about the birth of Cicero’s son and pumped his advocate’s hand in warm congratulation, and then produced a beautiful calfskin box, which he insisted Cicero open. Inside was a baby’s silver amulet which Catilina had acquired in Utica. “It is merely a local trinket to ward off ill health and evil spirits,” he explained. “Please give it to your lad with my blessing.”
    “Well,” replied Cicero, “this is handsome of you, Catilina.” And it was indeed exquisitely engraved, certainly no mere trinket: when Cicero held it to the light I saw all manner of exotic wild animals chasing one another, linked by a motif of curling serpents. For one last moment he toyed with it and weighed it in his palm, but then he replaced it in its box and handed it back to Catilina. “I am afraid I cannot accept it.”
    “Why?” asked Catilina, with a puzzled smile. “Because you are my advocate, and advocates cannot be paid? Such integrity! But this is only a trifle for a baby!”
    “Actually,” said Cicero, drawing in his breath, “I have come to tell you I am not going to be your advocate.”
    I was in the act of unpacking all the legal documents onto a small table which stood between the two men. I had been watching them in a sideways fashion, but now I put my head down and carried on. After what seemed to me a long silence, I heard Catilina say, in a quiet voice, “And why is that?”
    “To speak frankly: because you are so obviously guilty.”
    Another silence, and then Catilina’s voice, when it came, was once again very calm. “But Fonteius was guilty of extortion against the Gauls, and you represented him.”
    “Yes. But there are degrees of guilt. Fonteius was corrupt but harmless. You are corrupt and something else entirely.”
    “That is for the court to decide.”
    “Normally I would agree. But you have purchased the verdict in advance, and that is not a charade I wish to be a part of. You have made it impossible for me to convince myself that I am acting honorably. And if I cannot convince myself, then I cannot convince anyone else—my wife, my brother, and now, perhaps more important, my son, when he is old enough to understand.”
    At this point I risked a look at Catilina. He was standing completely motionless, his arms hanging loosely by his sides, and I was reminded of an animal that has suddenly come across a rival—it was a type of predatory stillness: watchful and ready to fight. He said lightly, but it seemed to me the lightness was now more strained, “You realize this is of no consequence to me, but only to yourself? It does not matter who is my advocate; nothing changes for me. I shall be acquitted. But for you now—instead of my friendship, you will have my enmity.”
    Cicero shrugged. “I prefer not to have the enmity of any man, but when it is unavoidable, I shall endure it.”
    “You will never have endured an enmity such as mine, I promise you that. Ask the Africans.” He grinned. “Ask Gratidianus.”
    “You removed his tongue, Catilina. Conversation would be difficult.”
    Catilina swayed forward slightly, and I thought he might do to Cicero what he had only half done to Clodius the previous evening, but that would have been an act of madness, and Catilina was never wholly mad: things would have been far easier if he had been. Instead he checked himself and said, “Well then, I suppose I must let you go.”
    Cicero nodded. “You must. Leave the papers, Tiro. We have no need of them now.”
    I cannot remember if there was any further conversation; I do not believe there was. Catilina and Cicero simply turned their backs on each other, which was the traditional means of signaling enmity, and so we left that ancient, empty, creaking mansion and went out into the heat of the Roman summer.

Roll XV

    NOW BEGAN A MOST DIFFICULT and anxious period in Cicero’s life,