Imperium

petals. It was a vastly better show than any of its rivals had managed, and the crowd around me greeted it with applause. At the center of all this whirling activity, as in the eye of a tornado, walked the candidate himself, clad in the gleaming toga candida which had already seen him through three victorious election campaigns. It was rare that I was able to watch him from a distance—usually I was tucked in behind him—and for the first time I appreciated what a natural actor he was, in that when he donned his costume he found his character. All those qualities which the traditional whiteness was supposed to symbolize—clarity, honesty, purity—seemed to be personified in his solid frame and steady gaze as he walked, unseeing, past me. I could tell by the way he moved, and his air of detachment, that he was heavy with a speech. I fell in at the back of the procession and heard the cheers from his supporters as he entered the chamber, and the answering catcalls of his opponents.
    We were kept back until the last of the senators had gone in, and then permitted to run to the bar of the house. I secured my usual decent vantage point beside the doorjamb and was immediately aware of someone squeezing in beside me. It was Atticus, looking white with nerves. “How does he find it within himself to do this?” he asked, but before I could say anything Figulus got up to report on the failure of his bill at the popular assembly. He droned on for a while, and then called on Mucius to explain his conduct in vetoing a measure which had been adopted by the house. There was an oppressive, restless air in the chamber. I could see Catilina and Hybrida among the aristocrats, with Catulus seated just in front of them on the consular bench, and Crassus a few places along from him. Caesar was on the same side of the chamber, on the bench reserved for ex-aediles. Mucius got up and in a dignified way explained that his sacred office called on him to act in the interests of the people, and that the lex Figula, far from protecting those interests, was a threat to their safety and an insult to their honor.
    “Nonsense!” shouted a voice from the opposite side of the aisle, which I recognized at once as Cicero’s. “You were bought!”
    Atticus gripped my arm. “Here he goes!” he whispered.
    Mucius continued. “My conscience—”
    “Your conscience had nothing to do with it, you liar! You sold yourself like a whore!”
    There came that low grumble of noise which is caused by several hundred men all muttering to one another at once, and suddenly Cicero was on his feet, his arm outstretched, demanding the floor. At that same moment I heard a voice behind me calling to be let through, and we shuffled out of the way to allow a late-arriving senator, who proved to be Hortensius, access to the chamber. He hurried down the aisle, bowed to the consul, and took his place next to Catulus, with whom he quickly struck up a whispered conversation. By this time Cicero’s supporters among the pedarii were bellowing that he should be allowed to speak, which, given that he was a praetorian, and outranked Mucius, he was undeniably entitled to do. Very reluctantly, Mucius allowed himself to be pulled down by the senators seated around him, whereupon Cicero pointed at him—his white-draped arm held out straight and rigid, like some statue of avenging Justice—and declared: “A whore you are, Mucius—yes, and a treacherous one at that, for only yesterday you declared to the popular assembly that I was not fit to be consul: I, the first man to whom you turned when you were prosecuted for robbery! Good enough to defend you, Mucius, but not good enough to defend the Roman people, is that it? But why should I care what you say about me, when the whole world knows you were paid to slander me?”
    Mucius turned scarlet. He shook his fist and started shouting insults in return, but I could not make them out over the general tumult. Cicero regarded him with contempt, then held up his hand for silence. “But who is Mucius in any case?” he said, spitting out the name and dismissing it with a flick of his fingers. “Mucius is just one solitary whore in a whole hired troupe of common prostitutes. Their master is a man of noble birth, bribery his chosen instrument—and believe me, gentlemen, he plays it like a flute! He is a briber of juries, a briber of voters and a briber of tribunes. Little wonder he loathed our bill against bribery, and that the