Dictator:

by Robert Harris

  He said, ‘I wonder if this would be a good opportunity for us to write our version of Aristotle’s Topics? Let’s face it: what could be more useful in this time of chaos than to teach men how to use dialectics to construct reasoned arguments? It could be in the form of a dialogue, like the Disputations – you playing one part and I the other. What do you think?’

  ‘My friend,’ I replied hesitantly, ‘if I may call you that, I have wanted for some time to speak to you but have not been sure how to do it.’

  ‘This sounds ominous! You’d better go on. Are you ill again?’

  ‘No, but I need to tell you I have decided not to accompany you to Greece.’

  ‘Ah.’ He stared at me for what felt like a very long time, his jaw moving slightly as it often did when he was trying to find the right word. Finally he said, ‘Where will you go instead?’

  ‘To the farm you so kindly gave me.’

  His voice was very quiet: ‘I see, and when would you want to do that?’

  ‘At any time convenient to you.’

  ‘The sooner the better?’

  ‘I don’t mind when it is.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘It can be tomorrow if you like. But that is not necessary. I don’t want to inconvenience you.’

  ‘Tomorrow then.’ And with that he turned back to his Aristotle.

  I hesitated. ‘Would it be all right if I borrowed young Eros from the stables and the little carriage, to transport my belongings?’

  Without looking up he replied, ‘Of course. Take whatever you need.’

  I left him alone and spent the remainder of the day and the evening packing my belongings and carrying them out into the courtyard. He did not appear for dinner. The next morning there was still no sign of him. Young Quintus, who was hoping for a place on Brutus’s staff and staying with us while his uncle tried to fix an introduction, said that he had gone off very early to visit Lucullus’s old house on the island of Nesis. He put a consoling hand on my shoulder. ‘He asked me to tell you goodbye.’

  ‘He didn’t say more than that? Just goodbye?’

  ‘You know how he is.’

  ‘I know how he is. Would you please tell him I’ll come back in a day or two to say a proper farewell?’

  I felt quite sick, but determined. I had made up my mind. Eros drove me to the farm. It was not far, only two or three miles, but the distance seemed much greater as I moved from one world to another.

  The overseer and his wife had not been expecting me so soon but nonetheless seemed pleased to see me. One of the slaves was called from the barn to carry my luggage into the farmhouse. The boxes containing my books and documents went straight upstairs into the raftered room I had selected earlier as the site for my little library. It was shuttered and cool. Shelves had been put up as I requested – rough and rustic, but I didn’t care – and I set about unpacking at once. There is a wonderful line in one of Cicero’s letters to Atticus in which he describes moving into a property and says: I have put out my books and now my house has a soul. That was how I felt as I emptied my boxes. And then to my surprise in one of them I discovered the original manuscript of On Friendship. Puzzled, I unrolled it, thinking I must have brought it with me by mistake. But when I saw that Cicero had copied out at the top of the roll in his shaking hand a quotation from the text, on the importance of having friends, I realised it was a parting gift:

  If a man ascended into heaven and gazed upon the whole workings of the universe and the beauty of the stars, the marvellous sight would give him no joy if he had to keep it to himself. And yet, if only there had been someone to describe the spectacle to, it would have filled him with delight. Nature abhors solitude.

  I allowed two days to pass before I returned to the villa in Puteoli to say my proper goodbye: I needed to be sure I was strong enough in my resolve not to be persuaded out of it. But the steward told me Cicero had already left for Pompeii and I returned at once to the farm. From my terrace I had a sweeping view of the entire bay, and often I found myself standing there peering into the immense blueness, which ran from the misty outline of Capri right round to the promontory at Misenum, wondering if any of the myriad ships I could see was his. But then gradually I became caught up in the routine of the farm. It was almost time to harvest the vines and the olives, and despite my creaking knees and my soft scholar’s hands, I donned a tunic and a wide-brimmed straw hat and worked outside with the rest, rising with the light and going to bed when it faded, too exhausted to think. Gradually the pattern of my former life began to fade from my mind, like a carpet left out in the sun. Or so I thought.

  I had no cause to leave my property save one: the place had no bath. A good bath was the thing I missed most, apart from Cicero’s conversation. I couldn’t bear to wash myself only in the cold water from the mountain spring. Accordingly I commissioned the construction of a bathhouse in one of the barns. But that couldn’t be done until after the harvest, and so I took to riding off every two or three days to use one of the public baths that are found everywhere along that stretch of coast. I tried many different establishments – in Puteoli itself, in Bauli and in Baiae – until I decided Baiae had the best, on account of the natural hot sulphurous water for which the area is famous. The clientele was sophisticated and included the freedmen of senators who had villas nearby; some of whom I knew. Without even meaning to, I began to pick up the latest gossip from Rome.

  Brutus’s games had passed off well, I discovered: no expense spared, even though the praetor himself was not present. Brutus had amassed hundreds of wild beasts for the occasion and, desperate for popular acclaim, he gave orders that every last one of them should be used up in fights and hunts. There were also musical performances and plays, including Tereus, a tragedy by Accius that contained copious references to the crimes of tyrants: apparently it received knowing applause. But unfortunately for Brutus, his games, although generous, were quickly overshadowed by an even more lavish set that Octavian gave immediately afterwards in honour of Caesar. It was the time of the famous comet, the hairy star that rose every day an hour before noon – we could see it even in the brilliantly sunny skies of Campania – and Octavian claimed it was nothing less than Caesar ascending into heaven. Caesar’s veterans were greatly taken with this notion, I was told, and young Octavian’s fame and reputation began to soar with the comet.

  Not long after this I was lying one afternoon in a hot pool on a terrace overlooking the sea when some men joined me who I soon gathered by their talk were on the staff of Calpurnius Piso. He had a veritable palace about twenty miles away at Herculaneum and I suppose they must have decided to break their journey from Rome and complete their travelling the next day. I didn’t consciously eavesdrop but I had my eyes closed and they may have thought I was sleeping. At any rate, I quickly pieced together the sensational intelligence that Piso, the father of Caesar’s widow, had made an outspoken attack on Antony in the Senate, accusing him of theft, forgery and treason, of aiming at a new dictatorship and of setting the nation on the road to a second civil war. When one of them said, ‘Aye, and there’s not another man in Rome with the courage to say it, now that our so-called liberators are all either hiding or have fled abroad’, I thought with a pang of Cicero, who would have hated to know that he had been supplanted as an upholder of liberty by Piso, of all people.

  I waited until they’d moved on before I climbed out of the pool. I remember I thought I would have a massage while I pondered what I’d just heard. I was moving towards the shaded area where the tables were set out when a woman appeared carrying a pile of freshly laundered towels. I cannot say I recognised her at once – it must have been fifteen years since I had last set eyes on her – but a few paces after we had passed one another I stopped and looked round. She had done the same. I recognised her then all right. It was the slave girl Agathe whose freedom I had bought before I went into exile with Cicero.

  This is Cicero’s story, not mine; it is certainly not Agathe’s. Neverth
eless, our three lives were entwined, and before I resume the main part of my story I believe she deserves some mention.

  I had met her when she was seventeen and a slave in the bath chambers of Lucullus’s great villa in Misenum. She and her parents, by then dead, had been seized as slaves in Greece and brought to Italy as part of Lucullus’s war booty. Her beauty, her gentleness and her plight all moved me. When I saw her next she was in Rome, one of six household slaves produced as witnesses at the trial of Clodius to support Lucullus’s contention that Clodius, his former brother-in-law, had committed incest and adultery in Misenum with his ex-wife. After that I glimpsed her just once more, when Cicero visited Lucullus before going into exile. She seemed to me by then to be broken in spirit and half dead. Having some small savings put aside, on the night we fled Rome I gave the money to Atticus so that he could purchase her from Lucullus on my behalf and set her free. I had kept an eye out for her in Rome over the years but had never seen her.

  She was thirty-six, still beautiful to me, although I could tell from her lined face and raw-boned hands that she still had to work hard. She seemed embarrassed and kept brushing back loose strands of grey hair with the back of her wrist. After a few awkward pleasantries there was a difficult silence and I found myself saying, ‘Forgive me, I am keeping you from your work – you will be in trouble with the owner.’

  ‘There will be no trouble on that score,’ she replied, laughing for the first time. ‘I am the owner.’

  After that we began to talk more freely. She told me she had tried to find me when she was freed, but of course by then I was in Thessalonica. Eventually she had come back to the Bay of Naples: it was the place she knew best and it reminded her of Greece. Because of her experience in the household of Lucullus, she had found plentiful work as an overseer in the local hot baths. After ten years some wealthy clients, merchants in Puteoli, had set her up in this place, and now it belonged to her. ‘But all this is because of you. How can I ever begin to thank you for your kindness?’

  Live the good life, Cicero had said: learn that virtue is the sole prerequisite for happiness. As we sat on a bench in the sunshine, I felt I had proof of that particular piece of his philosophy, at least.

  My sojourn on the farm lasted forty days.

  On the forty-first, the eve of the Festival of Vulcan, I was working in the vineyard in the late afternoon when one of the slaves called out to me and pointed down the track. A carriage, accompanied by twenty men on horseback, was bouncing over the ruts, throwing up so much dust in the shafts of summer sunshine, it looked as if it was travelling on golden clouds. It drew up outside the villa and from it descended Cicero. I suppose I had always known in my heart that he would come looking for me. I was fated never to escape. As I walked towards him, I snatched off my straw hat and swore to myself that on no account would I be persuaded to return with him to Rome. Beneath my breath I whispered, ‘I will not listen … I will not listen … I will not listen …’

  I could see at once from the swing of his shoulders as he wheeled round to greet me that he was in tremendous spirits. Gone was the drooping dejection of recent times. He put his hands on his hips and roared with laughter at my appearance. ‘I leave you alone for a month and see what happens! You have turned into the elder Cato’s ghost!’

  I arranged for his entourage to be given refreshment while we went on to the shaded terrace and drank some of last year’s wine, which he pronounced to be not bad at all. ‘What a view!’ he exclaimed. ‘What a place to live out one’s declining years! Your own wine, your own olives …’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied carefully, ‘it suits me very well. I shan’t be going far. And your plans? What happened to Greece?’

  ‘Ah well, I got as far as Sicily, whereupon the southerly winds got up and kept blowing us back into harbour and I began to wonder if the gods weren’t trying to tell me something. Then, while we were stuck in Regium waiting for better weather, I heard about this extraordinary attack on Antony made by Piso. You must have heard the commotion even here. After that, letters came from Brutus and Cassius saying that Antony was definitely starting to weaken – they were to be offered provinces after all, and he had written to them saying he hoped they would soon be able to come to Rome. He has summoned the Senate for a meeting on the first of September and Brutus has sent a letter to all former consuls and praetors asking them to attend.

  ‘So I said to myself: am I really going to run away at this of all moments, while there’s still a chance? Will I go down in history as a coward? I tell you, Tiro, suddenly it was as if a thick mist that had enshrouded me for months had cleared and I saw my duty absolutely. I turned right around and sailed back the way I had come. As it happened, Brutus was at Velia, preparing to set sail, and he practically went down on his knees to thank me. He’s been given Crete as his province; Cassius has Cyrene.’

  I could not help pointing out that these were hardly adequate compensation for Macedonia and Syria, which was what they had been allotted.

  ‘Of course not,’ replied Cicero, ‘which is why they’re resolved to ignore Antony and his wretched illegal edicts and go straight to their original provinces. After all, Brutus has followers in Macedonia, and Cassius was the hero of Syria. They will raise legions and fight for the republic against the usurper. A whole new spirit has infused us – a flame pure white and sublime.’

  ‘And you will go to Rome?’

  ‘Yes, for the meeting of the Senate in nine days’ time.’

  ‘Then it sounds to me as though you have the most dangerous assignment of the three.’

  He waved his hand dismissively. ‘So what is the worst that can happen? I’ll die. Very well: I’m past sixty; I’ve run my race. And at least this will be a good death – which as you know is the supreme objective of the good life.’ He leaned forwards. ‘Tell me: do I seem happy to you?’

  ‘You do,’ I conceded.

  ‘That’s because I realised when I was stuck in Regium that finally I have conquered my fear of death. Philosophy – our work together – has accomplished that for me. Oh, I know that you and Atticus won’t believe me. You’ll think that underneath I’m still the same timid creature I always was. But it’s true.’

  ‘And presumably you expect me to come with you?’

  ‘No, not at all – the opposite! You have your farm and your literary studies. I don’t want you to expose yourself to any more risk. But our earlier parting was not what it should have been, and I couldn’t pass your gate without remedying that.’ He stood and opened his arms wide. ‘Goodbye, my old friend. Words are inadequate to express my gratitude. I hope we meet again.’

  He clasped me to him so firmly and for so long that I could feel the strong and steady beating of his heart. Then he pulled away, and with a final wave he walked towards his carriage and his bodyguards.

  I watched him go, his familiar gestures: the straightening of his shoulders, the adjustment of the folds of his tunic, the unthinking way he offered his hand to be helped into his carriage. I glanced around at my vines and my olive trees, my goats and my chickens, my dry-stone walls, my sheep. Suddenly it seemed a small world – a very small world.

  I called after him: ‘Wait!’

  XVI

  IF CICERO HAD pleaded with me to return with him to Rome, I probably would have refused. It was his willingness to set off without me on the last great adventure of his life that piqued my pride and sent me chasing after him. Of course my change of heart did not surprise him. He knew me far too well. He merely nodded and told me to gather what I required for the journey, and to be quick about it: ‘We need to make good progress before nightfall.’

  I called my little household together in the courtyard and wished them luck with the harvest. I told them I would come back as soon as possible. They knew nothing of politics or Cicero. Their expressions were bewildered. They lined up to watch me leave. Just before the place disappeared from view, I turned to wave, but they had already returned to the fields.

&nb
sp; It took us eight days to reach Rome, and every mile of the journey was fraught with peril, despite the guards that had been provided for Cicero by Brutus, and always the threat was the same: Caesar’s old soldiers, who had sworn oaths to hunt down those responsible for the assassination. The fact that Cicero had known nothing of it beforehand did not concern them: he had defended it afterwards, and that was enough to render him guilty in their eyes. Our route took us across the fertile plains that had been given to Caesar’s veterans to farm, and at least twice – once when we passed through the town of Aquinum and then soon afterwards at Fregellae – we were warned of ambushes up ahead and had to halt and wait until the road was secured.

  We saw burnt-out villas, scorched fields, slaughtered livestock; even once a body hanging from a tree with a placard reading ‘Traitor’ round its neck. Caesar’s demobbed legionaries roamed Italy in small bands as if they were back in Gaul, and we heard many stories of looting, rape and atrocities. Whenever Cicero was recognised by the ordinary citizens, they flocked to him, kissed his hands and clothes and pleaded with him to deliver them from terror. Nowhere was the common population’s devotion more evident than when we reached the gates of Rome on the day before the Senate was due to meet. His welcome was even warmer than when he returned from exile. There were so many deputations, petitions, greetings, handshakes and sacrifices of thanks to the gods that it took him nearly all day to cross the city to his house.