Dictator:

by Robert Harris

  ‘Who is the accused?’ enquired Cicero.

  ‘Publius Asicius.’

  Cicero paused to remember the name. ‘Isn’t he one of your estate managers?’

  ‘He is. That’s what makes it embarrassing.’

  Cicero had the tact not to ask whether Asicius was guilty or not. He considered the matter purely as a lawyer. He said to Ptolemy, ‘Until this matter blows over, I would strongly advise Your Majesty to remove yourself as far away from Rome as possible.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if I were the Coponius brothers, the first thing I should do is issue a subpoena summoning you to give evidence.’

  ‘Can they do that?’ asked Pompey.

  ‘They can try. To save His Majesty the embarrassment, I would advise him to be miles away when the writ is served – out of Italy, if possible.’

  ‘But what about Asicius?’ said Pompey. ‘If he’s found guilty, that could look very bad for me.’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘Then he must be acquitted. You’ll take the case, I hope? I’d regard it as a favour.’

  This was not what Cicero wanted. But Pompey was insistent, and in the end, as usual, he had no option but to accede. Before we left, Ptolemy, as a token of his thanks, presented Cicero with a small and ancient jade statue of a baboon, which he explained was Hedj-Wer, the god of writing. I expect it was quite valuable, but Cicero couldn’t abide it – ‘What do I want with their primitive mud gods?’ he complained to me afterwards, and he must have thrown it away; I never saw it again.

  Asicius, the accused man, came to see us. He was a former legionary commander who had served with Pompey in Spain and the East. He looked eminently capable of murder. He showed Cicero his summons. The charge was that he had visited Coponius’s house early in the morning with a forged letter of introduction. Dio was in the act of opening it when Asicius whipped out a small knife he had concealed in his sleeve and stabbed the elderly philosopher in the neck. The blow had not been immediately fatal. Dio’s cries had brought the household running. According to the writ, Asicius had been recognised before he managed to slash his way out of the house.

  Cicero did not enquire about the truth of the matter. He merely advised Asicius that his best chance of acquittal lay in a good alibi. Someone would need to vouch that he was with them at the time of the murder – and the more witnesses he could produce and the less connection they had with Pompey, or indeed Cicero, the better.

  Asicius said, ‘That’s easy enough. I have just the fellow lined up: a man known to be on bad terms both with Pompey and yourself.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your old protégé Caelius Rufus.’

  ‘Rufus? What’s he doing mixed up in this business?’

  ‘Does it matter? He’ll swear I was with him at the hour the old man was killed. And he’s a senator nowadays, don’t forget – his word carries weight.’

  I half expected Cicero to tell Asicius to find another advocate, such was his distaste for Rufus. But to my surprise he said, ‘Very well, tell him to come and see me and we’ll depose him.’

  After Asicius had gone, Cicero said, ‘Surely Rufus is a close friend of Clodius? Doesn’t he live in one of his apartments? In fact, isn’t Clodia his mistress?’

  ‘She certainly used to be.’

  ‘That was what I thought.’ The mention of Clodia made him thoughtful. ‘So what is Rufus doing offering an alibi to an agent of Pompey?’

  Later that same day, Rufus came to the house. At twenty-five, he was the youngest member of the Senate, and very active in the law courts. It was odd to see him swaggering through the door wearing the purple-striped toga of a senator. Only nine years before, he had been Cicero’s pupil. But then he had turned on his former mentor, and eventually beaten him in court by prosecuting Cicero’s consular colleague, Hybrida. Cicero could have forgiven him that – he always liked to see a young man on the rise as an advocate – but his friendship with Clodius was a betrayal too far. So he greeted him very icily and pretended to read various documents while Rufus dictated his statement to me. Cicero must have been listening keenly, however, for when Rufus described how he was entertaining Asicius in his house at the time of the killing, and gave as his home address a property on the Esquiline, Cicero suddenly looked up and said, ‘But don’t you rent a property from Clodius on the Palatine?’

  ‘I’ve moved,’ replied Rufus casually, but there was something too offhand in his tone, and Cicero detected it at once.

  He pointed his finger at him and said, ‘You’ve quarrelled.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘You’ve quarrelled with that devil and his sister from hell. That’s why you’re doing this favour for Pompey. You always were the most hopeless liar, Rufus. I see through you as clearly as if you were made of water.’

  Rufus laughed. He had great charm: he was said to be the most handsome young man in Rome. ‘You seem to forget, I don’t live in your house any more, Marcus Tullius. I don’t have to give an account of my friendships to you.’ He swung himself easily on to his feet. He was also very tall. ‘Now I’ve given your client his alibi, as was requested, and our business here is done.’

  ‘Our business will be done when I say it is,’ Cicero called after him cheerfully. He did not bother to rise. I showed Rufus out, and when I returned, he was still smiling. ‘This is what I’ve been waiting for, Tiro. I can feel it. He’s fallen out with those two monsters, and if that’s the case, they won’t rest until they’ve destroyed him. We need to ask around town. Discreetly. Spread some money around if we have to. But we must find out why he’s left that house!’

  The trial of Asicius ended the day it began. The case boiled down to the word of a few household slaves against that of a senator, and on hearing Rufus’s affidavit, the praetor directed the jury to acquit. This was the first of many legal victories for Cicero following his return, and he was soon in high demand, appearing in the Forum most days, just as in his prime.

  Throughout this time the violence in Rome worsened. On some days the courts could not sit because of the risks to public safety. A few days after setting upon Cicero in the Via Sacra, Clodius and his followers attacked the house of Milo and attempted to burn it down. Milo’s gladiators drove them off and retaliated by occupying the voting pens on the Field of Mars in a vain attempt to prevent Clodius’s election as aedile.

  Cicero sensed opportunity in the chaos. One of the new tribunes, Cannius Gallus, laid a bill before the people demanding that Pompey alone should be entrusted with restoring Ptolemy to the throne of Egypt. The bill so incensed Crassus that he actually paid Clodius to organise a popular campaign against Pompey. And when Clodius eventually won the aedileship, he used his powers as a magistrate to summon Pompey to give evidence in an action he brought against Milo.

  The hearing took place in the Forum in front of many thousands. I watched it with Cicero. Pompey mounted the rostra, but had hardly uttered more than a few sentences when Clodius’s supporters started to drown him out with catcalls and slow handclaps. There was a kind of heroism in the way that Pompey simply put his shoulders down and went on reading out his text, even though no one could hear him. This must have gone on for an hour or more, and then Clodius, who was standing a few feet along the rostra, started really working up the crowd against him.

  ‘Who’s starving the people to death?’ he shouted.

  ‘Pompey!’ roared his followers.

  ‘Who wants to go to Alexandria?’

  ‘Pompey!’

  ‘Whom do you want to go?’

  ‘Crassus!’

  Pompey looked as if he had been struck by lightning. Never had he been insulted in such a way. The crowd started heaving like a stormy sea, one side pushing against the other, with little eddies of scuffles breaking out here and there, and suddenly from the back, ladders appeared and were passed rapidly over our heads to the front, where they were thrown up against the rostra and a group of ruffians began scaling it – Milo’s ruffians,
it transpired, for the moment they reached the platform they charged at Clodius and hurled him off it, a good twelve feet down on to the spectators. There were cheers and screams. I didn’t see what happened after that, as Cicero’s attendants hustled us out of the Forum and away from danger, but we learned later that Clodius had escaped unharmed.

  The following evening, Cicero went off to dine with Pompey and came home rubbing his hands with pleasure. ‘Well, if I’m not mistaken, that’s the beginning of the end of our so-called triumvirate, at least as far as Pompey’s concerned. He swears Crassus is behind a plot to murder him, says he’ll never trust him again, threatens that if necessary Caesar will have to return to Rome to answer for his mischief in creating Clodius in the first place and destroying the constitution. I’ve never seen him in such a rage. As for me, he couldn’t have been friendlier, and assures me that whatever I do, I can rely on his support.

  ‘But better even than that – when he was deep in his cups, he finally told me why Rufus has switched allegiance. I was right: there’s been the most tremendous falling-out between him and Clodia – so much so that she’s claiming he tried to poison her! Naturally, Clodius has taken his sister’s side, thrown Rufus out of his house and called in his debts. So Rufus has had to turn to Pompey in the hope of some Egyptian gold to pay off what he owes. Isn’t it all marvellous?’

  I agreed it was all marvellous, though I couldn’t see why it warranted quite such ecstasies of joy.

  Cicero said, ‘Bring me the praetors’ lists, quick!’

  I went and fetched the schedule of court cases that were due to be heard over the next seven days. Cicero told me to look up when Rufus was next due to appear. I ran my finger down the various courts and cases until I found his name. He was scheduled to begin a prosecution in the constitutional court for bribery in five days’ time.

  Cicero said, ‘Who is he prosecuting?’

  ‘Bestia.’

  ‘Bestia! That villain!’

  Cicero lay back on the couch in his familiar posture when cooking up a scheme, with his hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling. L. Calpurnius Bestia was an old enemy of his, one of Catilina’s tame tribunes, lucky not to have been executed for treason with his five fellow conspirators. Yet here he was, apparently still active in public life, being prosecuted for buying votes during the recent praetorian elections. I wondered what possible interest Bestia could hold for Cicero, and after a long period during which he said nothing, I ventured to ask him.

  His voice seemed to come from a long way away, as if I had interrupted him in a dream. ‘I was just thinking,’ he said slowly, ‘that I might offer to defend him.’

  V

  THE NEXT MORNING, Cicero went to call on Bestia, taking me with him. The old rogue had a house on the Palatine. His expression when Cicero was shown in was comical in its astonishment. He had with him his son Atratinus, a clever lad who had only just donned the toga of manhood and was eager to begin his career. When Cicero announced that he wished to discuss his impending prosecution, Bestia naturally assumed he was about to receive another writ and grew quite menacing. It was only thanks to the intervention of the boy, who was in awe of Cicero, that he was persuaded to sit down and listen to what his distinguished visitor had to say.

  Cicero said, ‘I have come here to offer my services in your defence.’

  Bestia gaped at him. ‘And why in the name of the gods would you do that?’

  ‘I have undertaken later in the month to appear on behalf of Publius Sestius. Is it true that you saved his life during the fighting in the Forum when I was in exile?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Well then, Bestia, chance for once throws us on the same side. If I appear for you, I can describe the incident at great length and that will help me lay the ground for Sestius’s defence, which will be heard by the same court. Who are your other advocates?’

  ‘Herennius Balbus to open, and then my son here to follow.’

  ‘Good. Then with your agreement I’ll speak third and do the winding-up – my usual preference. I’ll put on a good show, don’t worry. We should have the whole thing wrapped up in a day or two.’

  Bestia by this time had moved from an attitude of deep suspicion to one of hardly being able to believe his luck that the greatest advocate in Rome was willing to speak on his behalf. And when Cicero strolled into court a couple of days later, his appearance provoked gasps of surprise. Rufus in particular was stunned. The very fact that Cicero, of all people – whom Bestia had once plotted to murder – should now appear as his supporter more or less guaranteed his acquittal. And so it proved. Cicero made an eloquent speech, the jury voted, and Bestia was found not guilty.

  As the court was rising, Rufus came over to Cicero. For once his normal charm was gone. He had been counting on an easy victory; instead his career had been checked. He said bitterly, ‘Well I hope you’re satisfied, although such a triumph brings you nothing but dishonour.’

  ‘My dear Rufus,’ replied Cicero, ‘have you learnt nothing? There is no more honour in a legal dispute than there is in a wrestling match.’

  ‘What I’ve learnt, Cicero, is that you still bear me a grudge and will stop at nothing to gain revenge on your enemies.’

  ‘Oh my dear, poor boy, I don’t regard you as my enemy. You’re not important enough. I have bigger fish to catch.’

  That really infuriated Rufus. He said, ‘Well, you can tell your client that as he insists on continuing as a candidate, I shall bring a second charge against him tomorrow – and the next time you rise in his defence, if you dare, I give you fair warning: I shall be waiting for you!’

  He was as good as his word: very soon afterwards, Bestia and his son brought the new writ round to show Cicero. Bestia said hopefully, ‘You’ll defend me again, I hope?’

  ‘Oh no, that would be very foolish. One can’t spring the same surprise twice. No, I’m afraid I can’t be your advocate again.’

  ‘So what’s to be done?’

  ‘Well, I can tell you what I’d do in your place.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘I’d lay a counter-suit against him.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Political violence. That takes precedence over bribery cases. Therefore you’ll have the advantage of putting him on trial first, before he can get you into court.’

  Bestia conferred with his son. ‘We like the sound of it,’ he announced. ‘But can we really make a case against him? Has he actually committed political violence?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Cicero. ‘Didn’t you hear? He was involved in the murder of several of those Egyptian envoys. Ask around town,’ he continued. ‘You’ll find lots of people willing to tell tales. There’s one man in particular you should go to see, although of course you never heard the name from me: you’ll understand why the moment I say it. You should talk to Clodius, or better still to that sister of his. I hear Rufus used to be her lover, and when his ardour cooled, he tried to get rid of her with poison. You know what that family is like – they love their vengeance. You should offer to let them join your suit. With the Claudii beside you, you’ll be unbeatable. But remember – you never got any of this from me.’

  I had worked very closely with Cicero for many years. I had grown used to his clever tricks. I did not think him capable of surprising me any more. That day proved me wrong.

  Bestia thanked him profusely, swore to be discreet and went off full of purpose. A few days later, a notice to prosecute was posted in the Forum: he and Clodius had combined forces to charge Rufus with both the attacks on the Alexandrian envoys and the attempted murder of Clodia. The news caused a sensation. Almost everyone believed that Rufus would be found guilty and sentenced to exile for life, and that the career of Rome’s youngest senator was over.

  When I showed him the list of charges, Cicero said, ‘Oh dear. Poor Rufus. He must be feeling very wretched. I think we should visit him and cheer him up.’

  And so we set off to find t
he house that Rufus was renting. Cicero, who at the age of fifty was starting to feel stiff in his limbs on cold winter mornings, rode in a litter, while I walked alongside him. Rufus turned out to be lodging on the second floor of an apartment block in the less fashionable part of the Esquiline, not far from the gate where the undertakers ply their trade. The place was gloomy even at midday, and Cicero had to ask the slaves to light candles. In the dim light we discovered their master in a drunken sleep, curled up beneath a pile of blankets on a couch. He groaned and rolled over and begged to be left alone, but Cicero dragged away his covers and told him to get up on his feet.

  ‘What’s the point? I’m finished!’

  ‘You’re not finished. Quite the contrary: we have that woman exactly where we want her.’

  ‘We?’ repeated Rufus, squinting up at Cicero through bloodshot eyes. ‘When you say “we”, does that imply you’re on my side?’

  ‘Not merely on your side, my dear Rufus. I am going to be your advocate!’

  ‘Wait,’ said Rufus. He touched his hand gently to his forehead, as if checking it was still intact. ‘Wait a moment – did you plan all this?’

  ‘Consider yourself to have been given a political education. And now let us agree that the slate is wiped clean between us, and concentrate on beating our common enemy.’ Rufus began to swear. Cicero listened for a while, then interrupted him. ‘Come, Rufus. This is a good bargain for us both. You’ll get that harpy off your back once and for all, and I’ll satisfy the honour of my wife.’

  Cicero held out his hand. At first Rufus recoiled. He pouted and shook his head and muttered. But then he must have realised he had no choice. At any rate, eventually he extended his own hand, Cicero shook it warmly, and with that the trap he had laid for Clodia snapped shut.

  The trial was scheduled to take place at the start of April, which meant it would coincide with the opening of the Festival of the Great Mother, with its famous parade of castrated holy men. Even so, there was no doubting which would be the greater attraction, especially when Cicero’s name was announced as one of Rufus’s advocates. The others were to be Rufus himself, and Crassus, in whose household Rufus had also served an internship as a young man. I am certain Crassus would have preferred not to have performed this service for his former protégé, especially given the presence of Cicero on the bench beside him, but the rules of patronage placed him under a heavy obligation. On the other side once again were young Atratinus and Herennius Balbus – both furious at Cicero’s duplicity, not that he cared a fig for their opinion – and Clodius, representing the interests of his sister. No doubt he too would have preferred to be at the Great Mother’s festivities, which he, as aedile, was supposed to oversee, but he could hardly have backed out of the trial when his family’s honour was at stake.