Imperium

We had anticipated trouble, and Quintus had taken the precaution of stationing some of our heftier supporters immediately behind and in front of his brother. As we approached the voting pens I felt increasingly worried, for I could see Catilina and his followers up ahead, waiting beside the returning officer’s tent. Some of these ruffians jeered us as we arrived at the enclosure, but Catilina himself, after a brief and contemptuous glance in Cicero’s direction, resumed talking to Hybrida. I muttered to young Frugi that I was surprised he did not at least put on a show of intimidation-that, after all, was his usual tactic-to which Frugi, who was no fool, responded, “He does not feel he needs to-he is so confident of victory.” His words filled me with unease.

But then a very remarkable thing happened. Cicero and all the other senators seeking either the consulship or the praetorship-perhaps two dozen men-were standing in the small area reserved for the candidates, surrounded by a low sheep fence to separate them from their supporters. The presiding consul, Marcius Figulus, was talking to the augur, checking that all was propitious for the ballot to begin, when just at that moment Hortensius appeared, followed by a retinue of about twenty men. The crowd parted to let him through. He approached the fence and called to Cicero, who interrupted his conversation with one of the other candidates-Cornificius, I think it was-and went over to him. This in itself surprised people, for it was known that there was little love lost between the two old rivals, and there was a stir among the onlookers; Catilina and Hybrida certainly both turned to stare. For a moment or two, Cicero and Hortensius regarded each other, then simultaneously they nodded and reached out and slowly shook the hand of the other. No word was uttered, and with the handclasp still in place, Hortensius half turned to the men behind him and raised Cicero’s arm above his head. A great shout of applause, mingled with some boos and groans, broke out, for there was no doubt what the gesture meant: I certainly never expected to see anything like it. The aristocrats were supporting Cicero! Immediately, Hortensius’s attendants turned and disappeared into the throng, presumably to spread the word among the nobles’ agents in the centuries that they were to switch their support. I risked a look at Catilina and saw on his face an expression of puzzlement rather than anything else, for the incident, though obviously significant-people were still buzzing about it-was so fleeting that Hortensius was already walking away. An instant later, Figulus called to the candidates to follow him to the platform so that the voting could begin.

YOU CAN ALWAYS SPOT A FOOL, for he is the man who will tell you he knows who is going to win an election. But an election is a living thing-you might almost say, the most vigorously alive thing there is-with thousands upon thousands of brains and limbs and eyes and thoughts and desires, and it will wriggle and turn and run off in directions no one ever predicted, sometimes just for the joy of proving the wiseacres wrong. This much I learned on the Field of Mars that day, when the entrails were inspected, the skies were checked for suspicious flights of birds, the blessings of the gods were invoked, all epileptics were asked to leave the field (for in those days an attack of epilepsy, or morbus comitialis, automatically rendered proceedings void), a legion was deployed on the approaches to Rome to prevent a surprise attack, the list of candidates was read, the trumpets were sounded, the red flag was hoisted over the Janiculum Hill, and the Roman people began to cast their ballots.

The honor of being the first of the 193 centuries to vote was decided by lot, and to be a member of this centuria praerogativa, as it was known, was considered a rare blessing, for its decision often set the pattern for what followed. Only the richest centuries were eligible for the draw, and I remember how I stood and watched as that year’s wi

If Crassus really had purchased the eight thousand votes which Ranunculus had estimated, that would normally have been enough to swing the election. But this ballot was unusually heavy, thanks to the interest aroused all across Italy, and as the voting went on throughout the morning it became apparent that the briber-in-chief had fallen just short of his target. Cicero had always had the equestrian order firmly behind him, plus the Pompeians and the lower orders. Now that Hortensius, Catulus, Metellus, Isauricus, and the Lucullus brothers were delivering the blocs of voters controlled by the aristocrats, he was wi

Cicero – 81 centuries

Catilina – 34 centuries

Hybrida – 29 centuries

Sacerdos – 9 centuries

Longinus – 5 centuries

Cornificius – 2 centuries

But then came the voting of the six centuries composed exclusively of the aristocrats, the sex suffragia, and they really put the knife into Catilina, so that if I retain one image above all from that memorable day it is of the patricians, having cast their ballots, filing past the candidates. Because the Field of Mars lies outside the city limits, there was nothing to stop Lucius Lucullus, and Quintus Metellus with him, both in their scarlet cloaks and military uniforms, turning out to vote, and their appearance caused a sensation-but nothing as great as the uproar that greeted the a

Cicero – 193 centuries

Hybrida – 102 centuries

Catilina – 65 centuries

Sacerdos – 12 centuries

Longinus – 9 centuries

Cornificius – 5 centuries

We cheered until our throats ached, although Cicero himself seemed very preoccupied for a man who had just achieved his life’s ambition, and I felt oddly uneasy. He was now permanently wearing what I later came to recognize as his “consular look”: his chin held ever so slightly high, his mouth set in a determined line, and his eyes seemingly directed toward some glorious point in the distance. Hybrida held out his hand to Catilina, but Catilina ignored it and stepped down from the podium like a man in a trance. He was ruined, bankrupt-surely it would be only a year or two before he was thrown out of the Senate altogether. I searched around for Crassus and Caesar, but they had quit the field hours earlier, once Cicero had passed the number of centuries needed for victory. So, too, had the aristocrats. They had gone home for the day the instant Catilina had been safely disposed of, like men who had been required to perform some distasteful duty-put down a favorite hunting dog, say, which had become rabid-and who now wanted nothing more than the quiet comfort of their own hearths.

THUS DID MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO, at forty-two, the youngest age allowable, achieve the supreme imperium of the Roman consulship-and achieve it, amazingly, by a unanimous vote of the centuries, and as a “new man,” without family, fortune, or force of arms to assist him: a feat never accomplished before or afterwards. We returned that evening to his modest home, and once he had thanked his supporters and sent them away, and received the congratulations of his slaves, he ordered that the couches from the dining room be carried up onto the roof, so that he could dine beneath the open sky, as he had done on that night-so long ago it seemed-when he had first disclosed his ambition to become consul. I was honored to be invited to join the family group, for Cicero was insistent that he would never have achieved his goal without me. For a delirious moment I thought he might be about to award me my freedom and give me that farm right there and then, but he said nothing about it, and it did not seem the appropriate time or setting to bring it up. He was on one couch with Terentia, Quintus was with Pomponia, Tullia was with her fiancé, Frugi, and I reclined with Atticus. I can recall little at my great age of what we ate or drank, or any of that, but I do remember that we each went over our particular memories of the day, and especially of that extraordinary spectacle of the aristocracy voting en masse for Cicero.