#the trial of popillius
Chapter 6: Holding Court
Having finished with clients, Cicero and I stepped out into the bright morning light with the usual string of clients in tow.
The senator walked quickly down the street, taking us from the leafy heights of the Esquiline Hill and into the smoke and stink of the Subura.
Cicero was a well-known figure here, a hero to the shopkeepers and merchants whose interests he had represented, and the people waved and called out warmly as we passed. Without breaking his step, Cicero acknowledged each bowed head, wave or greeting, and, while I was always ready to whisper names into his ear, I rarely that I needed to. He knew his voters far better than I.
Finally, we entered the Forum Romanum, where the crowds were growing by the moment. I don’t know how it is today, but in those days there were always six or seven law courts in almost permanent session, each set up in a different part of the forum. By the time each of these courts convened, the forum was packed with advocates, legal officers and spectators come to hear the cases of the day, which always made for good entertainment.
By chance, we emerged into the forum as Quintus Hortensius Hortalus, Cicero’s primary rival and the recognized best lawyer in Rome, passed by with his legal team. Due to his rank and reputation, Cicero was forced to stop and wait. The patrician barely registered or acknowledged my master’s presence, which left Cicero irritated; obviously, Hortensius did not feel the need to acknowledge someone he felt was beneath him.
Our business this morning was in the central criminal court, which convened outside the Basilica Aemilia, where the fifteen-year-old Caius Popillius Laenas was on trial, accused of stabbing his father to death. Cicero was due to make the closing speech for his defense, and, if he failed, Popillius would be stripped naked, flayed until he bled, sewn up in a sack with a dog, a cock and a viper, and thrown into the River Tiber.
“We really must secure an acquittal,” Cicero whispered to me as we approached. “If only to spare the dog, the cock and viper the ordeal of being sewn up in a sack with Popillius.”
Cicero stopped to talk briefly to his client. He didn’t care for the boy, of course, so he didn’t care whether or not he was guilty. He undertook only to do his best, and, in return, the Popillii Laeni, a family which boasted four consuls within its family tree, would be obliged to support him whenever he ran for office.
As I sat down at the defense table, Cicero quickly scribbled something on a piece of parchment, which he then handed to me.
“Say nothing to our Sicilian friend,” he said. “Take this to the chief clerk at the Senate House and see if you can get it on today’s agenda.”
I ran as fast as my legs would carry me, wishing to complete my errand in time for my master’s closing speech.
It was not until I was almost to the Senate House that I glanced down at what he had written: That in the opinion of the House the prosecution of persons in their absence on capital charges should be prohibited in the provinces. I felt a tightening in my chest, for it amounted to nothing less than a declaration of war.
