“I remember, Quintus. We’ve been over it enough times,” Julius replied. He had grown to like the elderly jurist, although the man seemed to live only for the law and cared nothing for the other concerns of the city. As a joke in their first week of preparation, Julius had asked him what he would do if he found one of his sons setting fire to a house in the city. After a great deal of silent thought, Quintus had said that he would not be able to take the case as the law forbade calling himself as a witness.

Quintus pressed the notes into Julius’s hands, his expression stern. “Do not be afraid to consult, remember. They will try to make you speak without thought. If you feel the arguments are slipping from you, turn away and I will advise as best I can. Do you remember the passage from the Twelve Tables?”

Julius raised his eyes in exasperation. “The one we all memorized as children? Yes, I know it.”

Quintus sniffed at the sarcasm. “Perhaps you should recite it again to be sure,” he said, unmoved.

Julius opened his mouth to reply, but a light cheer from the crowd interrupted him.

“It’s the magistrates . . . and the praetor. Only an hour late, Master Scaevola,” one of the younger jurists hissed to Quintus. Julius looked to follow their gaze and saw the group come out of the Senate building, where they had been preparing.

The crowd fell silent in anticipation as the group of four men walked slowly with their guards into the court area. Julius scrutinized them carefully. The praetor was unknown to him, a short red-faced man with a bald crown. He walked with his head bowed as if in prayer, taking his seat on the raised platform that had been assembled for the trial. Julius watched as the praetor nodded to the centurion of the guards and signaled for the magistrates to take their seats next to him.