CHAPTER 37

When it came time to make our arguments, Crispinus strutted to the well of the chamber and held nothing back. He jabbed his finger at Apronius as he derided the traitor, and the spittle forming at the edge of his mouth made him resemble a rabid dog. He turned, paced, and gestured, his toga flapping this way and that. It was a classic example of the Asiatic school of rhetoric, the orators we had derogatorily called “the dancing masters” during my days at Molon. Unfortunately, it seemed to be having its intended effect.

Many of the senators, mindful of Macro’s watching eyes, made a show of registering their agreement. They murmured their approval and nodded along and occasionally even interrupted Crispinus with applause. He thrived on the feedback, his voice becoming more bombastic, his flourishes more exaggerated. I could hear the crowd outside the Senate doors growing restless, and a few shouts of disgust penetrated the chamber. Seneca’s instincts had proven right. The common citizens of Rome were fed up with the treason trials, especially when they endangered a man as reputable as Apronius.

Crispinus finished strong, claiming that Caesar’s very honor was at stake. A vote for not guilty would be a vote to open the floodgates to all sorts of vile and scandalous things that could be said against Tiberius.

“Do we not owe the emperor greater respect than that? Should we allow men to sneak around behind his back and make vile accusations against him? This is an emperor who fought in Armenia and recaptured the Roman standards from the Parthians. This is an emperor who initially refused the titles of Imperator and Augustus, a man so humble he declined to wear the civic crown and laurels. This is a man who has filled Rome’s treasury to the greatest level in her august history and has ensured that all her provinces are ruled fairly and well.

“Are we to allow traitors who skulk around in the shadows to besmirch his name? For the sake of Rome, for the sake of Caesar, for the sake of this institution, we must be willing to punish one of our own members who engages in such treasonous conduct.”

The clapping, I noticed, did not start immediately. It actually seemed that the great Crispinus had fizzled somewhat. He had tried to rouse the senators to their feet but it fell flat. When he stopped, Mutilus stood to clap and was quickly followed by Otho. A few others joined them and then a few more, until the standing ovation had rippled through the entire Senate. For a senator to remain seated, I knew, would have drawn the ire of Macro.

I allowed time for the clapping to run its course and for the senators to sit back down. Then I stood and glanced toward the Senate doorway, where Seneca was standing.

“You’re ready,” he mouthed.

I felt strangely calm as I took my place in front of the consuls. I noticed, of all things, a pigeon that flew overhead and perched on a rafter. It seemed that for this moment, all of nature had an interest in what I was about to say.

Cato gave me a nod, and I began slowly, hesitatingly, as I tried to get comfortable with all the senatorial stares. “How can we be so sure about what the great Tiberius himself might say if he were sitting in your seats?” I asked. “Reading the mind of Caesar is fraught with difficulty. This body should vote based on its own convictions, not based on what you think Caesar might want you to do.”

I could tell from the looks on their faces that the senators were not buying it. With someone as volatile as Tiberius, you had better err on the side of protecting his reputation.

“But if you are insistent on voting the way you think Tiberius would want you to vote, then you should surely acquit my client.”

The remark brought a few snickers from the senators. One or two smiled snidely at the insanity of such a comment. I pointed to one of them. “You doubt the truth of that?” I asked. But I didn’t give the man a chance to respond.

“There is one thing that all the witnesses in this case have agreed on. My client never took any action against Caesar; he merely spoke disparaging words. So the question becomes: Is that enough? Can a conviction for maiestas be sustained on mere words?”

I allowed that thought to hang in the air for a moment. I was nervous, and it was hard not to talk continually and fill the silence. But my training in rhetoric had taken over. The senators no longer intimidated me. In my mind they had become my fellow pupils in the Molon School.

“Have you so quickly forgotten the case of Gaius Lutorius Priscus?” I knew that nobody had forgotten about Priscus. The man was a wildly popular poet and satirist who wrote a disparaging poem about Tiberius’s son Drusus just before his death. Priscus read the poem to several high-ranking women at a raucous banquet. The Senate charged Priscus with maiestas and convicted him based on conflicting testimony. One senator, Marcus Lepidus, argued vehemently that Priscus’s punishment should be commuted. Instead, the Senate ordered that Priscus be executed immediately.

When Tiberius heard about this, he complained of the senators’ hasty punishment and praised Lepidus. He also issued an edict —from that point forward, the Senate had to wait nine days after conviction before a prisoner could be executed.

“You, Marcus Lepidus,” I said, pointing to the senator, “gave an impassioned defense of Priscus. And that man’s satire makes Senator Apronius’s comments look mild by comparison.” Lepidus stared stoically at me, making it impossible to read his thoughts. “You had the courage to stand against the entire Senate once. And when Tiberius heard about it, he praised you. Do you remember what he said?”

Lepidus gave me a slight nod, and I knew I had him as I continued. “He complained that the Senate had been too hasty to convict Priscus for mere words and that you alone had exercised commendable restraint.”

I turned away from Lepidus and lifted my voice so that every senator could easily hear. “Mere words,” I said. “That’s what Tiberius called such stinging satire. Mere words.

“Is Tiberius so weak that the honor of his office and the nobility of his person cannot withstand an attack of mere words? Are his accomplishments so meager and his policies so misguided that they cannot hold up to the slightest amount of criticism? Does he need you to police every word spoken because his reputation cannot stand on its own two feet?”

I noticed that the chamber had grown quiet. Perhaps the senators’ lack of courage could be used to my advantage. I tried to tighten the rope another twist.

“This chamber’s authority to conduct treason trials was granted to you by Caesar himself. But that authority came with a very crucial limitation.

“Mere words cannot be the basis of a conviction for maiestas. To say otherwise is to say that the great Tiberius can be injured by nothing more than what a man says. That his office and honor are so fragile that one snide comment from a misguided senator will cause the emperor to come crumbling down. A vote of guilty says that you believe Tiberius is weak. But a vote of not guilty says that mere words, harmless puffs of air from a human mouth, cannot destroy the impenetrable house of Caesar.

“Mere words,” I said. “Which of you has never uttered a single word critical of Caesar?”

I left the question dangling and returned confidently to my seat. Nobody inside the chamber clapped. Instead, the senators were damning me with their eyes. Perhaps I had just made an easy decision a more difficult one.

But outside, the freedmen were cheering.