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more to say later, pointed at Cicero, and then drew his finger across his throat. Cicero flushed pink but kept his self-control. He even managed a thin smile. Catulus turned with delight to the benches behind him and I caught a glimpse of his grinning profile, sharp and beak-nosed, like a head on a coin. He swiveled back to face the chamber. “When I first entered this House, in the consulship of Claudius Pulcher and Marcus Perperna…” His voice settled into a confident drone.
    Cicero caught my eye. He mouthed something, glanced up at the windows, then gestured with his head toward the door. I understood at once what he meant, and as I pushed my way back through the spectators and into the Forum I realized that Marcus Metellus must have been dispatched on exactly the same errand. In those days, when timekeeping was cruder than it is now, the last hour of the day’s business was deemed to begin when the sun dropped west of the Maenian Column. I guessed that must be about to happen and, sure enough, the clerk responsible for making the observation was already on his way to tell the consul. It was against the law for the Senate to sit after sunset. Clearly, Hortensius and his friends were planning to talk out the remainder of the session, preventing Cicero’s motion from being put to the vote. By the time I had quickly confirmed the sun’s position for myself, run back across the Forum, and wriggled my way through the crowd to the threshold of the chamber, Gellius was making the announcement: “The last hour!”
    Cicero was instantly on his feet, wanting to make a point of order, but Gellius would not take it, and the floor was still with Catulus. On and on Catulus went, giving an interminable history of provincial government, virtually from the time since the she-wolf suckled Romulus. (Catulus’s father, also a consul, had famously died by shutting himself up in a sealed room, kindling a charcoal fire, and suffocating himself with the fumes: Cicero used to say he must have done it to avoid listening to another speech by his son.) When he did eventually reach some sort of conclusion, he promptly yielded the floor to Quintus Metellus. Again Cicero rose, but again he was defeated by the seniority rule. Metellus had praetorian rank and unless he chose to give way, which naturally he did not, Cicero had no right of speech. For a time, Cicero stood his ground against a swelling roar of protest, but the men on either side of him—one of whom was Servius, his lawyer friend, who had his interests at heart, and could see he was in danger of making a fool of himself—pulled at his toga and finally he surrendered and sat down.
    It was forbidden to light a lamp or a brazier inside the chamber. As the gloom deepened, the cold sharpened, and the white shapes of the senators, motionless in the November dusk, became like a parliament of ghosts. After Metellus had droned on for an eternity and then sat down in favor of Hortensius—a man who could talk on anything for hours—everyone knew the debate was over, and very soon afterwards Gellius dissolved the House. He limped down the aisle, an old man in search of his dinner, preceded by four lictors carrying his curule chair. Once he had passed through the doors the senators streamed out after him and Sthenius and I retreated a short distance into the Forum to wait for Cicero. Gradually the crowd around us dwindled. The Sicilian kept asking me what was happening, but I felt it wiser to say nothing, and we stood in silence. I pictured Cicero sitting alone on the back benches, waiting for the chamber to empty, so that he could leave without having to speak to anyone, for I feared he had badly lost face. But to my surprise he strolled out chatting with Hortensius and another, older senator, whom I did not recognize. They talked for a while on the steps of the Senate House, shook hands, and parted.
    “Do you know who that was?” asked Cicero, coming over to us. Far from being cast down,