Imperium

aristocrats in a pincer movement, between his soldiers encamped beyond the walls of Rome and the common people on the city’s streets. Hortensius, Catulus, Metellus, and the rest would have no choice but to concede both Pompey’s consulship and the tribunes’ restoration, or risk annihilation. And once they did, Pompey could send his army home, and if necessary rule by circumventing the Senate and appealing directly to the people. He would be unassailable. It was, as Cicero described it to me, a brilliant stroke, and he had seen it in that flash of insight as he sat on Palicanus’s couch.
    “What exactly would be in it for me?” asked Cicero.
    “A reprieve for your client.”
    “And nothing else?”
    “That would depend on how good you were. I cannot make specific promises. That will have to wait until Pompey himself gets back.”
    “That is a rather weak offer, if I may say so, my dear Palicanus.”
    “Well, you are in a rather weak position, if I may say so, my dear Cicero.”
    Cicero stood. I could see he was put out. “I can always walk away,” he said.
    “And leave your client to die in agony on one of Verres’s crosses?” Palicanus also stood. “I doubt it, Cicero. I doubt you are that hard.” He took us out then, past Pompey as Jupiter, past Pompey as Alexander. “I shall see you and your client at the basilica tomorrow morning,” he said, shaking hands with Cicero on the doorstep. “After that you will be in our debt, and we shall be watching.” The door closed with a confident slam.
    Cicero turned on his heel and stepped into the street. “If that is the kind of art he puts on public display,” he said, “what do you suppose he keeps in the latrine? And do not warn me to guard my tongue, Tiro, because I do not care who hears it.”
    He walked on ahead of me through the city gate, his hands clasped behind his back, his head hunched forward, brooding. Of course, Palicanus was right. He had no choice. He could not abandon his client. But I am sure he must have been weighing the political risks of moving beyond a simple appeal to the tribunes to a full-blooded campaign for their restoration. It would cost him the support of the moderates, such as Servius.
    “Well,” he said with a wry smile when we reached his house, “I wanted to get into a fight, and it seems I have succeeded.”
    He asked Eros, the steward, where Terentia was, and looked relieved when he learned she was still in her room. At least that saved him from having to tell her the news for a few more hours. We went into his study, and he had just started dictating to me his speech to the tribunes—“Gentlemen, it is an honor to stand before you for the first time”—when we heard shouts and a thump from the entrance. Cicero, who always liked to think on his feet and was pacing around, ran to find out what was happening. I hurried after him. Six rough-looking fellows were crowded in the vestibule, all wielding sticks. Eros was rolling on the ground, clutching his stomach, with blood pouring from a split lip. A seventh stranger, armed with an official-looking document, stepped up to Cicero and announced that he had the authority to search the house.
    “The authority of whom?” Cicero was calm—calmer than I would have been in his shoes.
    “Gaius Verres, pro-praetor of Sicily, issued this warrant in Syracuse on the first day of December.” He held it up before Cicero’s face for an insultingly short time. “I am searching for the traitor Sthenius.”
    “You will not find him here.”
    “I shall be the judge of that.”
    “And who are you?”
    “Timarchides, freedman of Verres, and I shall not be kept talking while he escapes. You,” he said, turning to the nearest of his men, “secure the front. You two take the back. The rest of you come with me. We shall start with your study, senator, if you have no objection.”
    Very soon the house was filled with the sounds of the search—boots on marble tile and wooden board, the screams of the female slaves, harsh male voices, the occasional crash as something was knocked and broken. Timarchides worked his way through the study upending document cases, watched by Cicero from the door.
    “He is hardly likely to be in one of those,” said Cicero. “He is not a dwarf.”
    Finding nothing in the study, they moved on up the stairs to the senator’s spartan bedroom and dressing room. “Be assured, Timarchides,” said Cicero, still keeping his cool, but obviously with