The lawyer for Fabius’s slaves looked beaten before he even opened his mouth. His thin shoulders were hunched in his heavy toga, and he looked as if the heat of the day was draining him of color.
“There is no knowing,” he began, “who saw or heard Gaius Fabius die. There is no one in this crowd who can tell me which of these slaves is an accomplice. Perhaps it was early morning, and while the elder slaves worked, it was the children who witnessed this terrible crime. I do not deny that this slave is responsible.” He flicked his wrist, and the guards took the boy away, holding him near the other slaves. I saw the boy look at an older woman, and felt certain from her tears that this was his mother.
“But who here wishes to punish the innocent?” the lawyer went on. “The children who have never learned right from wrong?” There was an uneasy shuffling in the crowd, and the men who had laughed wore serious faces now. “It’s true that if you allow these slaves to be put to death, you are sending a message across Rome. But the message is that we are no different from barbarians!” I could see that he had been arguing all afternoon, and the strain was beginning to show. “Look at these faces,” he implored. “This one.” He stepped back and held up the chin of the beautiful girl who had smiled at Juba. “She can’t be more than six years old. What has she done to deserve death? She hasn’t even lived life!”
I saw Gallia blinking back tears.
“And this child,” the lawyer said. He touched the shoulder of a boy who was not more than ten. “What might he become if we let him live? He might serve another master well, he might buy his freedom. He might become as wealthy and powerful and useful as Caesar’s consul Agrippa!” There was an eager murmur in the crowd, and the lawyer fixed his gaze on the seven rows of judices. “Have pity,” he demanded. “Place blame on the shoulders it should rest on. Not upon the innocent!” He left the podium, and for several moments no one said anything.
“Do you think a decision will be made tomorrow?” Marcellus asked.
“It appears that way,” Juba said quietly, and I wondered whether he had been moved by the public lawyer’s plea.
As we walked through the Forum, Julia said brightly, “Who would have thought a trial could be so interesting? Perhaps we should place bets.”
For the first time, I saw Marcellus recoil in disgust.
“What?” she said. “It’s no different from the arena.”
“Perhaps I should not have bet there, either,” he said shortly, and Julia gave me a puzzled look.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE CROWD that came to witness the fate of Gaius Fabius’s two hundred slaves filled the Forum all the way from the courtyard of the Carcer to the steps of the Temple of Castor and Pollux. We had been allowed to skip our time on the Campus Martius to hear the judices pronounce their verdict, and even Octavian came, with Livia and Agrippa.
“Where are your sisters?” I asked Marcellus. “And why isn’t your mother here?”
He stepped forward to get a better view. Although we were standing behind the raised wooden platform, hundreds of senators jostled around us. “Trials of this sort upset her,” he said. “And she’d never allow my sisters to come. They saw a man sentenced to death once and have never stopped talking about it.”
“So you think they’ll be found guilty?” I worried.
“Certainly the slave who killed Fabius. The others….” He hesitated. “I don’t know. It would be unfair to send them to their deaths.”
“And what could the children possibly have done?” my brother added.
“If the Red Eagle were here,” Marcellus whispered, “there would be acta on every temple door decrying this.”
“Perhaps he’s waiting,” I suggested, “to see what the judices do.”
Although Octavia had chosen not to come, the rest of Rome appeared to be in attendance. And because Octavian was with us, the lawyers spoke swiftly. Their last arguments were the most moving. Gaius Fabius’s lawyer pled for justice, pointing to Fabius’s wife in the crowd, who dabbed at her eyes. But the lawyer for the slaves begged for reason, reminding the judices of the children and old women who could not have taken part in a murder. I watched Octavian’s face as each judex stood to announce his verdict, and when all of them pronounced the slave boy guilty, he nodded, as if in agreement. There was a deafening cheer from the crowd, and the boy cast a fearful glance at his mother, who buried her face in her chained hands.
“This is it,” Julia said. “I wonder what they’ll do.” She brushed a stray black curl from her forehead and stood on tiptoe to see the faces of the judices.
The first judex stood and announced his verdict for the two hundred slaves. “Guilty,” he said, and I looked to Octavian, whose face was an expressionless mask. The second judex rose, and when he, too, pronounced a verdict of guilty, the people began to grow restless.
“Perhaps we should leave,” Juba suggested as the third and fourth judex announced their verdicts of guilty.
“Marcellus,” Octavian called sharply. “Tiberius. We’re leaving.”
“But we haven’t even heard the verdict,” Julia complained.
“Perhaps you would rather stay here and be killed?” Livia demanded.
The crowd was growing increasingly discontent, and as more judices pronounced their verdict of guilty, some of the freedmen began the chant of “Red Eagle.”
“Go!” Octavian shouted to us. “Go!”
The Praetorian cleared a path through the Forum, but as the last judex announced his verdict, the freedmen and slaves became uncontrollable. I could hear the sounds of rioting behind us: statues being shattered, and soldiers clashing with the people. A wave of angry men rushed toward us, and Livia cried shrilly, “It’s Spartacus all over again!” Octavian took her arm, then the guards surrounded us and began to run. The angry slaves didn’t need weapons. All they needed was fire and stones.
When we reached the Palatine, Octavia rushed from her portico. “What happened?” she cried.
“Guilty,” Gallia replied, and Octavia went pale.
“All two hundred will be put to death?” She looked at her brother.
“That was their verdict.”
“But don’t you think—?”
His look silenced her. We followed him to the platform he had built to watch the races and saw a column of smoke rising from the Forum.
“So the plebs are rioting again,” Tiberius remarked.
Octavian clenched his jaw. “This will not be tolerated.”
“It’s these slaves that are the problem,” Livia exclaimed. “They have to be controlled! Why not have them all wear one color. Or brand them?”
“A third of Rome’s population is in servitude,” Juba reminded her. “Do you really want three hundred thousand slaves able to identify one another in the streets?”
Octavian pursed his lips. “That’s right. They cannot be branded.”
I stole a glance at Gallia, but her face was impossible to read.
“What about a leniency in the laws?” Octavia asked.
“And that would make these slaves less violent?” her brother shouted.
Octavia stepped back. “Yes.” I could see that she was holding back tears. “If they feel that they have a place in court to challenge abusive masters, then perhaps it will.”
Octavian looked to Marcellus. “And what would you do?” he asked suddenly. It was a test, and Marcellus glanced uneasily at his mother.
“I would bring fewer slaves into Rome,” he said.
Tiberius snorted. “And who would till the fields? Romans aren’t having children. The men don’t want to spend the denarii and the women don’t want stretch marks.”
Marcellus laughed. “And how would you know that?”
Tiberius flushed. “I … I listen.”
“It’s true,” Octavia said quietly. Behind her, the thick column of smoke was widening. “Women don’t want the
