CHAPTER 34

In putting together Apronius’s defense, I first tried to draw on my vast knowledge of Cicero. The man had been Rome’s greatest orator and had stood undaunted in the face of overwhelming odds. But that’s not where I ultimately found my inspiration.

My dinner with Pilate had drawn my thoughts back to the Nazarene. Something about the way he had seemed resigned to his fate stirred me. The way he had lectured Pilate about destiny. “You say that I am a king. I was born for this, and for this I have come into the world: to testify to the truth.” Jesus had stared Pilate down, despite the fact that Pilate had the authority to order his execution. What was it the Nazarene had said? “You have no power except that given you from above.”

I mulled that over for a moment, marveling not just at the supreme self-assurance of Jesus but at his assertion that Pilate had no jurisdiction over him.

That’s when it hit me. A way to defend Apronius that might actually work!

I wasted no time before getting to work on my new theory, toiling late into the night. The next day, I had Apronius pull records from prior treason trials. I started going for long walks up and down the Seven Hills of Rome, shivering against the cold, practicing my argument. Those closest to me must have thought I had gone a little mad —walking around, talking to myself, not bothering to shave.

Two days before the trial, I practiced my argument in front of Seneca. When I finished, he leaned back, crossed his legs, and rubbed his chin. I could tell he was deep in thought. His eyes looked past me as he watched the scene play out in his mind.

“It’s brilliant,” he said. “It just might work.”

He coached me on some minor adjustments. A voice inflection. The way I held my hands. A need to pause or a change in the wording of a few sentences. But he didn’t touch the substance of my speech.

Before I left, he grabbed me by both arms and told me he was proud of me. “I always knew you had this in you,” he said. “When you talk to those senators, remember that they are merely men, the same as we are. But maybe you can spark them to rise above the petty jealousies that have inflicted that group recently. And even if you don’t, you have made your teacher proud.”

The wave of optimism I felt coursing through my body that night all but disappeared by the morning of the trial. My toga was freshly washed, but it was the toga of an equestrian. My entire defense was contained in the small box that held my wax notebooks with my closing argument and a few exhibits I intended to introduce. Later that morning, I would walk to the Senate alone, without even a servant trailing behind me.

Others would arrive in grander style. Crispinus would be carried to the Senate in a litter with a huge entourage of servants and well-wishers following along. His very passing would create a stir on the streets of Rome. His entrance into the Senate chamber would be followed by the glad-handing of other senators as they masked their animosity toward him with nervous smiles. Junius Otho, the praetor who would testify against my client, would have lictors precede his entourage, announcing his arrival. Mutilus would merit the same kind of reception.

Thinking about it, I lost my appetite. My stomach was in such an uproar that I decided to skip breakfast and head straight to the Senate. My nerves were on edge, and it would do no good to try to rehearse my argument again.

But just as I was putting on my cloak, help arrived in the form of a loud and insistent knock.

I opened the door, and he was standing there grinning. He was taller now —I no longer looked down on him. But it didn’t seem like he’d gained a single pound since childhood. He was all skin and bones, elbows and knees, and his cloak hung on a rail-thin frame. Somehow, his bone-sharp face had retained its boyish innocence.

“Marcus!”

“I thought you might need somebody to carry your bag,” he said.

We embraced and patted each other on the back. Marcus explained that he was a physician practicing medicine in Sicily. But when a friend needs help, he said, you drop everything and come.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” I said.

“You never could stay out of trouble.”

We left ten minutes later, the two of us walking side by side through the streets of Rome, past the busy shops where people conducted their daily affairs. A few recognized me and, under their breath, wished me luck. Others stared from the opposite side of the street.

I had arranged to meet Apronius at the lower end of the Forum so that we could review some last-minute details. He appeared to be in good spirits.

I introduced him to Marcus, and the three of us huddled in the cold while a few light flakes of snow started to fall. Apronius’s servants stood at a respectful distance. Some onlookers stopped and stared.

When we finished our meeting, we headed down the long plaza of the Forum toward the Senate.

As we approached, I saw a huge crowd of people braving the cold. They had apparently come to show their support for a senator who had the courage to take on Tiberius. They clapped as we drew near, and Apronius took time to stop and shake hands, greeting some of them by name, embracing others.

The plaza outside the Senate door was packed with men, women, and children, bundled up as if they intended to stay all day. These were freedmen —some who had been helped by Apronius financially, others who knew his family, still others who might have worked for the man. They were our people, and I knew that today, like every day when important Senate business was transacted, the massive chamber doors would remain open so that the citizens on the street could hear the proceedings.

Inside I might be persona non grata. But out here, I was quickly becoming a hero.

I dove into the crowd along with Apronius, shaking hands, thanking people for coming. A few held my grasp longer than necessary, garnering my full attention. “He’s a good man,” they said. “We’re counting on you.”

By the time we were ready to enter the Senate, I was glad that I had ignored Seneca’s initial advice. My remarks were not tailored merely to showcase my advocacy skills. My argument was designed to win.

As an equestrian, Marcus would have to wait outside along with the rest of the crowd. At the threshold, he gave me a parting pat on the shoulder. “The gods be with you.”

“Perhaps the people already are,” I said.

He nodded. “It’s quite a display.”

I looked past him at the faces of the crowd. Some of the countenances were dirty and sooted, sheltered by tattered hoods. Others were men and women of distinction, just like Marcus. They were all Romans, here to take a stand for justice.

“That’s the Rome I dreamed about as a boy,” I said to Marcus, nodding at the crowd. “That’s why I became an advocate.”

But Marcus was facing the opposite direction. Behind me were the scowling senators, milling around the Senate chamber, preparing to decide the fate of my client.

“And that,” Marcus said, motioning to the men who composed the Roman Senate, the most prestigious legislative body in the history of the world, “is why I became a doctor.”