CHAPTER 36

When Apronius got his chance to testify, he rose from his seat and approached the dais looking grim and determined. The pressure of the maiestas proceedings had driven other senators to suicide. Some had been reduced to groveling and muttering abject apologies, full of tears and drama. But Apronius stood tall and raised his right hand to take the oath.

Cato swore him in, and Apronius promised, “in the name of Tiberius himself,” to tell the truth. If he testified falsely, he called a curse upon himself, including “the destruction and total extinction of my body, soul, life, children, and descendants.”

Apronius stood below the dais, and Crispinus began pacing between him and the senators, firing questions.

“Did you tell Papius Mutilus that Tiberius Caesar was not worthy of the title of Caesar?”

“Yes, I said words to that effect.”

“Did you criticize Tiberius Caesar, son of the divine Augustus, for his failure to continue the building programs of Augustus?”

Apronius didn’t blink. “Essentially, yes.”

“Do you affirm those accusations today?” Crispinus asked, his tone showing his incredulity. Crispinus undoubtedly thought my client would at least deny his prior statements. If nothing else, our strategy surprised him.

“I am affirming that I said those words to Papius Mutilus,” Apronius said calmly. “Today, I acknowledge that my words were rash and ill-advised. Tiberius Caesar is a fair and honorable principate and one who would welcome honest disagreements with his policies.”

At this, Crispinus moved toward the witness, the lines on his face turning into a harsh scowl. “Did you not claim that he had abandoned the empire? Did you not claim that the man suffered from delusions and paranoia?”

He had claimed all of that and more. While preparing for today’s trial, Apronius had been absolutely unmovable on one point —he would tell the truth, no matter the consequences. But that was easier to say when the room was not full of judgmental senators staring into your soul, wondering how anyone so measured could be so reckless in talking about the emperor.

Apronius swallowed hard.

“Your fellow senators are waiting,” Crispinus mocked. “It seems that your fabled memory has had a lapse. Did you or did you not call the divine Tiberius both delusional and paranoid?”

“I did.”

It went on this way for quite some time. Statement after statement made by my client came to light, and I had no power to stop it. Sometimes Apronius would begin to answer and Crispinus would cut him off with another question. Meanwhile, Macro surveyed the senators, occasionally glancing in my direction. The targets, I knew, were being selected for the next prosecution.

Crispinus ended his examination, as both Apronius and I knew he would, on the matter of the lavatory sponges.

“Senator Apronius, tell your fellow senators whether you claimed that you had engraved an image of Tiberius Caesar on the end of your lavatory sponge.”

For the first time, Apronius looked down, his voice a low rattle. “I should not have said that. But I did.”

“I’m sorry,” Crispinus said loudly, “but I am not sure that all the senators heard. Did you indeed say such a thing?”

“I said that I regretted saying those words. But I admitted that the words were mine.”

Crispinus shook his head in a grand show of disgust. He made a spectacle of returning to his seat while a soft murmur of feigned disbelief floated through the chamber. The senators all knew Apronius had made those statements. Why were they playing such a ridiculous game and acting so surprised?

Cato squirmed in his seat in a vain attempt to get his enormous body comfortable, then called on me. “Any questions for the witness?”

I had several but was suddenly having second thoughts about the first few I had planned. In preparing for trial, I had explained to Apronius the philosophy of Cicero: use humor to lower their guards, logic to engage their minds, and emotion to win their hearts. Thus, we had designed our first questions to elicit a chuckle and simultaneously demonstrate how ridiculous these charges were.

I carried a small box as I strode to the middle of the floor in front of Apronius. In it were his lavatory sponges. My plan was to show them to Apronius, ask if they contained any images of Caesar, and mark them as an exhibit. It would demonstrate what everyone knew —the statements by Apronius were only satire. It would also show a level of feistiness that I hoped would inspire some senators to stiffen their spines.

But I had badly miscalculated what the mood might be. There was no hint of humor in the air. Fear, yes. Disgust, perhaps. And a healthy degree of surprise that Apronius had not at least attempted to deny his statements. I was afraid that if I tried to introduce these exhibits now, it would be seen as mere mockery.

Apronius, to his credit, must have sensed the same thing. He glanced at the box and gave me a quick shake of the head.

“I have only a few questions for Senator Apronius,” I said. “My first one is this: Have you ever done anything to harm the state of Rome or the emperor? For example, have you taken any actions to conspire against the authority of Tiberius Caesar?”

“No, I have not.”

“When you said that the Roman Senate should do something about the state of affairs of Rome, were you advocating anything illegal?”

“No. I was only saying that, as senators, we should exercise the jurisdiction that is properly ours, jurisdiction given to us by the laws of Rome and affirmed by Caesar.”

“Do you regret your criticism of Tiberius?”

We had planned this question and gone over it a dozen times. That’s why it surprised me when Apronius waited so long before he answered. He was supposed to issue a full and heartfelt apology. But now that the moment had come, I wondered whether he could bring himself to do it.

“I regret the hyperbole and sarcasm with which I expressed my sentiments. But I believe I have a duty, both to the state of Rome and to Caesar himself, to express concerns about the well-being of our empire.”

His answer, though not in the script, was expressed with such conviction and certitude that it made me proud to have him as a client. Behind me, a cheer went up from the gallery outside the Senate doors. Cato frowned and turned to the guards. “Keep them quiet or I’ll order the doors closed.”

Apronius stared straight ahead, jaw firm, unflinching.

I had seen this kind of courage in the face of the Nazarene. I had seen it in the best of the gladiators. I had read about it in the annals of Roman history. But today I was witnessing something truly historic —a Roman politician unafraid to die.

“I have no further questions for the defendant,” I told Cato.