Imperium

greater difficulty as he watched his bed being overturned, “that you and your master will be repaid for this, one hundredfold.”
    “Your wife,” said Timarchides. “Where does she sleep?”
    “Ah,” said Cicero quietly, “now I really would not do that, if I were you.”
    But Timarchides had his blood up. He had come a long way, was finding nothing, and Cicero’s manner was chafing on his nerves. He ran along the passage, followed by three of his men, shouted “Sthenius! We know you’re in there!” and threw open the door of Terentia’s bedroom. The screech that followed and the sharp crack of her hand across the invader’s face rang through the house. Then came a volley of colorful abuse, delivered in such an imperious voice, and at such a volume, that Terentia’s distant ancestor, who had commanded the Roman line against Hannibal at Cannae a century and a half before, must surely have sat bolt upright in his tomb. “She fell on that wretched freedman,” Cicero used to say afterwards, “like a tigress out of a tree. I almost felt sorry for the fellow.”
    Timarchides must have realized his mission had failed and decided to cut his losses, for in short order he and his ruffians were retreating down the stairs, followed by Terentia, with little Tullia hiding behind her skirts and occasionally brandishing her tiny fists in imitation of her mother. We heard Timarchides calling to his men, heard a running of feet and the slam of the door, and after that the old house was silent except for the distant wailing of one of the maids.
    “And this,” said Terentia, taking a deep breath and rounding on Cicero, her cheeks flushed, her narrow bosom rising and falling rapidly, “ this is all because you spoke in the Senate on behalf of that dreary Sicilian?”
    “I am afraid it is, my darling,” he said sadly. “They are determined to scare me off.”
    “Well, you must not let them, Cicero.” She put her hands on either side of his head and gripped it tight—a gesture not at all of tenderness but of passion—and glared furiously into his eyes. “You must crush them.”
    The upshot was that the following morning, when we set out for the Basilica Porcia, Quintus was on one side of Cicero, Lucius was on the other, and behind him, magnificently turned out in the formal dress of a Roman matron and carried in a litter hired specially for the occasion, came Terentia. It was the first time she had ever troubled to see him speak, and I swear he was more nervous of appearing before her than he was of appearing before the tribunes. He had a big retinue of clients to back him up as he left the house, and we picked up more along the way, especially after we stopped off halfway down the Argiletum to retrieve Sthenius from his bolt-hole. A hundred or more of us must have surged across the Forum and into the tribunes’ hall. Timarchides followed at a distance with his gang, but there were far too many of us for him to risk an attack, and he knew that if he tried anything in the basilica itself he would be torn to bits.
    The ten tribunes were on the bench. The hall was full. Palicanus rose and read the motion, That in the opinion of this body the proclamation of banishment from Rome does not apply to Sthenius, and Cicero stepped up to the tribunal, his face clenched white with nerves. Quite often he was sick before a major speech, as he had been on this occasion, pausing at the door to vomit into the gutter. The first part of his oration was more or less the same as the one he had given in the Senate, except that now he could call his client to the front and gesture to him as need arose to stir the pity of the judges. And certainly a more perfect illustration of a dejected victim was never paraded before a Roman court than Sthenius on that day. But Cicero’s peroration was entirely new, not at all like his normal forensic oratory, and marked a decisive shift in his political position. By the time he reached it, his nerves were gone and his delivery was on fire.
    “There is an old saying, gentlemen, among the merchants in the Macellum, that a fish rots from the head down, and if there is something rotten in Rome today—and who can doubt that there is?—I tell you plainly that it has started in the head. It has started at the top. It has started in the Senate.” Loud cheers and stamping of feet. “And there is only one thing to do with a stinking, rotten fish head, those merchants will tell you, and that is to cut