Lustrum c-2 Page 3

  'Really, I cannot speak about a case I have to judge.'

  'Admit it: the true purpose of this prosecution is to intimidate the senate.'

  'You must direct your questions to Labienus.'

  'I'm directing them to you.'

  'Very well, since you press me, I'd rather call it a reminder to the senate that if they trample on the dignity of the people by killing their representatives, the people will have their vengeance, however long it takes.'

  'And you really think you'll enhance the dignity of the people by terrorising a helpless old man? I've just come from Rabirius. His wits have been entirely withered by age. He has no idea what's going on.'

  'If he's no idea what's going on, how can he be terrorised?'

  There was quite a long pause, then Cicero said, in a different tone, 'Listen, my dear Gaius, we've been good friends for many years.' (This was putting it a bit strong, I thought.) 'May I give you some friendly advice, in the manner of an older brother to his junior? A glittering career lies ahead of you. You're young-'

  'Not that young! I'm already three years older than Alexander the Great was when he died.'

  Cicero laughed politely; he thought Caesar was joking. 'You're young,' he repeated. 'You have a powerful reputation. Why jeopardise it by provoking such a confrontation? Killing Rabirius will not only set the people against the senate, it will be a stain on your honour. It might play well with the mob today, but it will count against you tomorrow with all the sensible men.'

  'I'll take the risk.'

  'You do realise that as consul I'll be obliged to defend him?'

  'Well, that would be a grave error, Marcus – if I may respond with equal friendliness? Consider the balance of forces that will be ranged against you. We have the support of the people, the tribunes, half the praetors – why, even Antonius Hybrida, your own consular colleague, is on our side! Who does that leave you with? The patricians? But they despise you. They'll throw you over the moment you're of no use to them. As I see it, you have only one choice.'

  'Which is?'

  'To join us.'

  'Ah.' Cicero had a habit when he was weighing someone up of resting his chin in the palm of his hand. He contemplated Caesar in this way for a while. 'And what would that entail?'

  'Support for our bill.'

  'And in return?'

  'I dare say my cousin and I can find it in our hearts to show some compassion to poor Rabirius, on the grounds of his impaired mind.' Caesar's thin lips smiled but his dark eyes stayed fixed on Cicero. 'What do you say?'

  Before Cicero could respond, we were interrupted by the arrival home of Caesar's wife. Some say that Caesar married this woman, whose name was Pompeia, purely at the urging of his mother, for the girl had useful family connections in the senate. But on the basis of what I saw that afternoon, I should say her attractions belonged to a more obvious sphere. She was much younger than he, barely twenty, and the cold had imparted a pretty blush to her creamy throat and cheeks, and a sparkle to her large grey eyes. She embraced her husband, arching against him like a cat, and then made an almost equal fuss of Cicero, flattering him for his speeches and even a volume of his poetry she claimed to have read. It occurred to me that she was drunk. Caesar regarded her with amusement.

  'Mama wants to see you,' he said, at which she pouted like a girl. 'Well, go on,' he commanded, 'don't make a sour face. You know what she's like,' and he gave her a pat on her rear to send her on her way.

  'So many women, Caesar,' observed Cicero drily. 'Where will they emerge from next?'

  Caesar laughed. 'I fear you'll take away a bad impression of me.'

  'My impression is quite unchanged, I assure you.'

  'So, then: do we have a bargain?'

  'It depends on what your bill contains. All we have so far are election slogans. “Land for the landless.” “Food for the hungry.” I'll need a few more details than that. And also perhaps some concessions.' But Caesar did not respond. His expression was blank. After a while the silence became embarrassing, and it was Cicero who ended it by grunting and turning aside. 'Well, it's getting dark,' he said to me. 'We should go.'

  'So soon? You'll take no refreshment? Then let me show you out.' Caesar was entirely affable: his manners were always impeccable, even when he was condemning a man to death. 'Think of it,' he continued, as he led us down the shabby passage. 'If you join us, how easy your term of office will be. This time next year your consulship will be over. You'll leave Rome. Live in a governor's palace. Make enough money in Macedonia to set you up for life. Come home. Buy a house on the Bay of Naples. Study philosophy. Write your memoirs. Whereas-'

  The doorkeeper stepped forward to help Cicero on with his cloak, but Cicero waved him away and turned on Caesar. 'Whereas? Whereas what? If I don't join you? What then?'

  Caesar put on an expression of pained surprise. 'None of this is aimed at you personally. I hope you understand that. We mean you no harm. In fact I want you to know that if ever you find yourself in personal danger, you can always rely on my protection.'

  ' I can always rely on your protection?' Seldom did I see Cicero at a loss for words. But on that freezing day, in that cramped and faded house, in that scruffy neighbourhood, I watched him struggle to find the language that would adequately convey his feelings. In the end he couldn't manage it. Draping his cloak over his shoulders, he stepped out into the snow, and under the sullen gaze of the band of ruffians still lingering in the street, he bade Caesar a curt farewell.

  ' I can always rely on his protection?' repeated Cicero as we trudged back up the hill. 'Who is he to talk to me in such a way?'

  'He's very confident,' I ventured.

  'Confident? He treats me as if I were his client!'

  The day was ending, and with it the year, fading swiftly in that way of winter afternoons. In the windows of the tenements lamps were being lit. People were shouting to one another above our heads. There was a lot of smoke from the fires, and I could smell food cooking. At the street corners the pious had put out little dishes of honey cakes as new-year offerings to the neighbourhood gods – for we worshipped the spirits of the crossroads in those days rather than the great god Augustus – and the hungry birds were pecking at them, rising and fluttering and settling again as we hurried past.

  'Do you want me to send a message to Catulus and the others?' I asked.

  'And tell them what? That Caesar has undertaken to spare Rabirius if I betray them behind their backs, and that I'm going away to consider his proposal?' He was striding ahead, his irritation lending strength to his legs. I was sweating to keep up. 'I noticed you weren't making a note of what he said.'

  'It didn't seem appropriate.'

  'You must always make a note. From now on, everything is to be written down.'

  'Yes, Senator.'

  'We're heading into dangerous waters, Tiro. Every reef and current must be charted.'

  'Yes, Senator.'

  'Can you remember the conversation?'

  'I think so. Most of it.'

  'Good. Write it all down as soon as we get back. I want to keep a record by me. But don't say a word to anyone – especially not in front of Postumia.'

  'Do you think she'll still come to dinner?'

  'Oh yes, she'll come – if only to report back to her lover. She's quite without shame. Poor Servius. He's so proud of her.'

  As soon as we reached the house, Cicero went upstairs to change while I retired to my little room to write down everything I could remember. I have that roll here now as I compose my memoir: Cicero preserved it among his secret papers. Like me it has become yellowish and brittle and faded with age. But again, like me, it is still comprehensible, just about, and when I hold it up close to my eyes I hear again Caesar's rasping voice in my ear. ' You can always rely on my protection… '

  It took me an hour or more to finish my account by which time Cicero's guests had arrived and gone in for dinner. After I had done I lay down on my narrow cot and thought of all I had witn
essed. I do not mind admitting I was uneasy, for Nature had not equipped me with the nerves for public life. I would have been happy to have stayed on the family estate: my dream was always to have a small farm of my own, to which I could retire and write. I had some money saved up, and secretly I had been hoping Cicero might give me my freedom when he won the consulship. But the months had gone by and he had never mentioned it, and now I was past forty and beginning to worry that I might die in servitude. The last night of the year is often a melancholy time. Janus looks backward as well as forward, and sometimes each prospect seems equally unappealing. But that evening I felt particularly sorry for myself.

  Anyway, I kept out of Cicero's way until very late, when I reasoned the meal must be close to finishing, then went to the dining room and stood beside the door where Cicero could see me. It was a small but pretty room, freshly decorated with frescoes designed to give the diners the impression that they were in Cicero's garden at Tusculum. There were nine around the table, three to a couch – the perfect number. Postumia had turned up, exactly as Cicero had predicted. She was in a loose-necked gown and looked serene, as if the embarrassment of the afternoon had never occurred. Next to her reclined her husband Servius, one of Cicero's oldest friends and the most eminent jurist in Rome: no mean achievement in that city full of lawyers. But immersing oneself in the law is a little like bathing in freezing water – bracing in moderation, shrivelling in excess – and Servius over the years had become ever more hunched and cautious, whereas Postumia remained a beauty. Still, he had a following in the senate, and his ambition – and hers – burned strong. He planned to stand for consul himself in the summer, and Cicero had promised to support him.

  The only friend of Cicero's of longer standing than Servius was Atticus. He was lying beside his sister, Pomponia, who was married – unhappily, alas – to Cicero's younger brother, Quintus. Poor Quintus: he looked as if he had taken refuge from her shrewish taunts in the wine as usual. The final guest was young Marcus Caelius Rufus, who had been Cicero's pupil, and who kept up a stream of jokes and stories. As for Cicero, he reclined between Terentia and his beloved Tullia and was putting on a show of such nonchalance, laughing at Rufus's gossip, you would never have guessed he had a care. But it is one of the tricks of the successful politician, to be able to hold many things in mind at once and to switch between them as the need arises, otherwise life would be insupportable. After a while he glanced towards me and nodded. 'Friends,' he said, loudly enough to cut through the general chatter, 'it is getting late, and Tiro has come to remind me I have an inaugural address to make in the morning. Sometimes I think he should be the consul and I the secretary.' There was laughter, and I felt the gaze of everyone turn on me. 'Ladies,' he continued, 'if you would forgive me, I wonder if the gentlemen might join me in my study for a moment.'

  He dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin and threw it on to the table, then stood and offered his hand to Terentia. She took it with a smile all the more striking because it was so rare. She was like some twiggy winter plant that had suddenly put forth a bloom, warmed by the sun of Cicero's success – so much so that she had actually set aside her lifelong parsimony and dressed herself in a manner befitting the wife of a consul and future governor of Macedonia. Her brand-new gown was sewn with pearls, and other newly purchased jewels glinted all about her: at her narrow throat and thin bosom, at her wrists and on her fingers, even woven into her short dark curls.

  The guests filed out, the women turning towards the tablinum, the men moving into the study. Cicero told me to close the door. Immediately the pleasure drained from his face.

  'What's all this about, brother?' asked Quintus, who was still holding his wine glass. 'You look as if you've eaten a bad oyster.'

  'I hate to spoil a pleasant evening, but a problem has arisen.' Grimly Cicero produced the writ that had been served on Rabirius, then described the afternoon's delegation from the senate and his subsequent visit to Caesar. 'Read out what the rascal said, Tiro,' he ordered.

  I did as he asked, and when I came to the final part – Caesar's offer of protection – all four exchanged glances.

  'Well,' said Atticus, 'if you turn your back on Catulus and his friends after all the promises you made to them before the election, you may have need of his protection. They'll never forgive you.'

  'Yet if I keep my word to them, and oppose the populists' bill, then Caesar will find Rabirius guilty, and I'll be obliged to defend him on the Field of Mars.'

  'And that you simply must not do,' said Quintus. 'Caesar's quite right. Defeat is certain. At all costs, leave his defence to Hortensius.'

  'But that's impossible! I can hardly stay neutral as the president of the senate while a senator is crucified. What kind of consul would that make me?'

  'A live one, rather than a dead one,' replied Quintus, 'because if you throw in your lot with the patricians, believe me, you'll be in real danger. Almost everyone will be against you. Even the senate won't be united – Hybrida will see to that. There are plenty on those benches just waiting for an opportunity to bring you down, Catilina first among them.'

  'I've an idea,' said young Rufus. 'Why don't we smuggle Rabirius out of the city and hide him in the country somewhere till this blows over?'

  'Could we?' Cicero pondered the suggestion, then shook his head. 'No. I admire your spirit, Rufus, but it wouldn't work. If we deny Caesar Rabirius, he's perfectly capable of trumping up a similar charge against Catulus or Isauricus – and can you imagine the consequences of that?'

  Servius meanwhile had picked up the writ and was studying it intently. His eyesight was weak and he had to hold the document so close to the candelabrum I feared it might catch fire. ' Perduellio,' he muttered. 'That's a strange coincidence. I was planning to propose in the senate this very month that the statute of perduellio be repealed. I'd even looked up all the precedents. I have them laid out on my desk at home.'

  'Perhaps that's where Caesar got the idea,' said Quintus. 'Did you mention it to him?'

  Servius's face was still pressed to the writ. 'Of course not. I never speak to him. The fellow's an utter scoundrel.' He glanced up to discover Cicero staring at him. 'What is it?'

  'I think I know how Caesar might have heard of perduellio.'

  'How?'

  Cicero hesitated. 'Your wife was at Caesar's house when we arrived this afternoon.'

  'Don't be absurd. Why would Postumia visit Caesar? She barely knows him. She was with her sister all day.'

  'I saw her. So did Tiro.'

  'Well then, maybe you did, but I'm sure there's some innocent explanation.' Servius pretended to carry on reading. After a while he said, in a low and resentful voice, 'I was puzzled why you'd waited till after dinner to discuss Caesar's proposal. Now I understand. You felt unable to speak openly in front of my wife, in case she ran to his bed and repeated what you said!'

  It was a horribly embarrassing moment. Quintus and Atticus both stared at the floor; even Rufus held his tongue for a change.

  'Servius, Servius, old friend,' said Cicero, taking him by the shoulders. 'You're the man in Rome I most wish to see succeed me as consul. My trust in you is absolute. Never doubt it.'

  'But you have insulted the honour of my wife, which is also an insult to me, so how can I accept your trust?' He pushed Cicero's hands away and walked with dignity out of the room.

  'Servius!' called Atticus, who could not bear any kind of unpleasantness. But the poor cuckold had already gone, and when Atticus moved to follow him, Cicero said quietly, 'Leave him, Atticus. It's his wife he needs to speak to, not us.'

  There was a long silence, during which I strained my ears for the sound of raised voices in the tablinum, but the only noise was of dishes being cleared from the dining room. Eventually, Rufus gave a roar of laughter. 'So that's why Caesar is always one step ahead of his enemies! He has spies in all your beds!'

  'Shut up, Rufus,' said Quintus.

  'Damn Caesar!' cried Cicero suddenly. 'There's no
thing dishonourable about ambition. I'm ambitious myself. But his lust for power is not of this world. You look into those eyes of his, and it's like staring into some dark sea at the height of a storm!' He flung himself into his chair and sat drumming his fingertips against the arms. 'I don't see what choice I have. At least if I agree to his terms I can gain myself some time. They've already been working on this damned bill of theirs for months.'

  'What's so wrong with giving free farms to the poor anyway?' asked Rufus, who, like many of the young, had populist sympathies. 'You've been out on the streets. You've seen what it's like this winter. People are starving.'

  'I agree,' said Cicero. 'But it's food they need, not farms. Farming demands years of skill, and back-breaking labour. I'd like to see those layabouts I met outside Caesar's house today working the fields from dawn till dusk! If we're forced to rely on them for food, we'll all be starving in a year.'

  'At least Caesar is concerned about them-'

  ' Concerned about them? Caesar is concerned about no man except himself. Do you really think Crassus, the richest man in Rome, is concerned about the poor? They want to dole out the public land – at no expense to themselves, by the way – to create an army of supporters so huge it will keep them in power for ever. Crassus has his eyes on Egypt. The gods alone know what Caesar wants – the entire planet, probably. Concerned! Really, Rufus, you do talk like a young fool sometimes. Have you learnt nothing since you came to Rome except how to gamble and whore?'

  I do not think Cicero meant his words to sound as harsh as they did, but I could tell they struck Rufus like a slap, and when he turned away his eyes were shining with suppressed tears – and not merely of humiliation, either, but of anger, for he was no longer the charming adolescent idler Cicero had taken in as a pupil, but a young man of growing ambition: a change Cicero had failed to notice. Even though the discussion went on for a while longer, Rufus took no further part in it.

  'Tiro,' said Atticus, 'you were there at Caesar's house. What do you think your master should do?'