'Yes, Meto, I understand.'

'And you'll treat me differently in the future?'

I took a deep breath. 'I shall try.'

'Good. Then we can begin by going to see the election tomorrow.' 'Oh, Meto,' I groaned.

'But, Papa, how can I learn if I can't see with my own eyes? That's why today was so extraordinary. Going into the Senate House, hearing him speak — I shall never forget it!'

'Hearing Cicero?'

'No, Catilina! It meant even more to me than the ceremony at the

Auguraculum. I must see what happens tomorrow.' He lowered his eyes. 'I could go alone—'

'Never! Gangs, knives, riots—'

'Then we shall go together?'

I wrinkled my brow. 'I shall sleep on it.'

'Papa…'

'Oh, very well.' I sighed. 'If you must see Rome at her worst…'

"Thank you, Papa!' He gripped my hands in his and then departed for bed. A few moments later I did the same, since I would not be sleeping late after all.

When I was a boy, the northwestern portion of the city outside the Servian Wall, called the Field of Mars, was still largely undeveloped. Chariot racers trained their horses and military units practised their drills on the unobstructed plain, with so much room that they did not even have to breathe one another's clouds of dust. At the far end of the Field, above a sweeping bend in the River Tiber, are the medicinal hot springs at Tarentum, where my father liked to go to ease his joints; I remember walking to the springs through wooded areas where goats chewed the grass alongside the road, with hardly a house in sight, as if one were in the country. Perhaps my boyish eyes exaggerated these pastoral expanses.

Of course, the southern portion of the Field of Mars nearest the Servian Wall has long been built up. The morning shadows of the Capitoline Hill have for many years fallen across warehouses and wharves on the Tiber, the teeming vegetable markets of the Forum Holitorium, crowded tenements, and the cluster of shops and baths around the Circus Flaminius, still the most conspicuous structure anywhere outside the Servian Wall. Even so, in my lifetime I have seen the entire Field of Mars become much more developed — more warehouses have gone up on the river, new and taller tenements have been squeezed between the old ones, the few remaining groves have been cleared and built over, new roads have been laid out. The chariot racers and drilling soldiers have been pressed closer together, so that their clouds of dust mingle in the air. The road to Tarentum is no longer like a brief respite in the countryside, but is surrounded by city all the way. There are even rumours that Pompey, having secured a large tract of public land in the heart of the Field of Mars, is planning to build a great theatre of stucco and marble. This has excited great controversy, for if built, the structure will be the first permanent theatre in Rome, a city where makeshift stages erected for festivals have always been deemed more proper than the temple-like theatres of the decadent, drama-worshipping Greeks.

Because it lies outside the city walls, and because of its flat expanse (as compared to the city's seven hills and the valleys between them), the Field of Mars has from very early days been the gathering place for assemblies too large (and often too unruly) to be accommodated in the Forum. From the time of the founding of the Republic, Romans have gathered there to do their voting.

So it was, very early the next morning, that Meto and I set out for the Field of Mars. I decided to take Belbo with us; if Cicero was right in his prediction of violence, I wanted a bodyguard. We ate a hurried but extravagant breakfast of leftovers from the party and took a bundle of food and a skin of watered wine with us. The sky was pale with dawn as we made our way through the Subura towards the Fontinal Gate. There were already groups of men in the street, all heading in the same direction. We were just passing through the gate when I heard the trumpets being blown to call the people to assemble.

Just off the Flaminian Way, between the built-up, southern area of the Field of Mars and the more open spaces to the north, is the Villa Publica. The walled enclosure is very old, as are the buildings within. Besides housing the offices of the census takers, who keep the registries of voters, the Villa Publica serves the city of Rome as a vestibule or foyer serves a house; foreign ambassadors are lodged there, as are Roman generals who must reside outside the city before making their triumphal entries. It is also the place where candidates withdraw to await the election results.

Adjoining the Villa Publica is another walled enclosure called, without ostentation, the Sheep Pen. On election day ropes are stretched across its length to split the space into aisles. To cast their ballots the voters are guided through the Pen like sheep through a run. It does not require a great wit to extrapolate the metaphors.

Under the rising sun citizens thronged to the open fields around the Villa Publica. Roman voters are split into various classes according to their wealth, and within those classes are assigned to voting units, or centuries. Organizers within each century were working doggedly to gather their members together; many of the centuries obviously had predetermined meeting places, but in such a vast crowd there was still considerable confusion. Compounding this was the weather.

It had not rained for several days, and there was a great deal of dust in the air. The morning was already warm and likely to get much warmer. The atmosphere was not unlike that of a great feedlot on a hot summer day.

It did not take long for me to see signs of outright bribery. I recognized a number of disreputable types in the crowd and I watched them move among the century leaders, smiling and clasping hands and brazenly handing out small, lumpy sacks that could only have been filled with coins. A few of these agents I recognized as henchmen of Crassus, and at least one of them I had noticed in Caesar's retinue the day before, but there were many more whose allegiance I did not know.

There were a few scattered instances of violence, but no general disruptions. We saw a country farmer and his sons beaten and run off by a gang of youths. We watched two red-faced, grey-haired Optimates engaged in a blustering fistfight with each other (one supported Murena, the other Silanus — who but an Optimate could tell the difference?); their attendant slaves stood back helplessly and looked on, variously appalled, alarmed, and amused. We came upon the aftermath of a duel with knives that ended with both parties being carried off, bleeding and moaning, by their friends. All in all, it was a more peaceful crowd than I had expected. Of course, these were only the violent episodes that we happened to witness; within the great milling throng there must have been many more.

A tumult of shouting moved towards us through the crowd, and I turned to see that Cicero and his fellow consul Gaius Antonius were arriving. Cicero was surrounded by his armed bodyguard and wore his toga open to show the breastplate across his chest, a last reminder to the voters of the presumed treachery of Catilina. They disappeared within the gates of the Villa Publica and eventually reappeared at the podium built into the wall. Antonius announced that the auspices had been duly observed by the augurs in the Villa Publica and had been declared acceptable. Without an earthquake and with a blue sky above, it could hardly have been otherwise, I thought, especially since the Senate had made its desires in the matter very clear on the previous day. The election could proceed.

Shortly thereafter the candidates arrived. Each was attended by a long retinue of supporters who pushed and shoved their way through the crowd. Each made an appearance on the podium before disappearing into the Villa Publica. There were mingled hisses and cheers for Murena and Silanus, the Optimate favourites, who appeared one after the other.