Our voyage quickly began to repeat the pattern of our first flight into exile. It was as if Mother Italy could not bear to allow her favourite son to leave her. We had gone about three miles, hugging close to the shore, when the grey sky began to fill with immense black clouds rolling in from the horizon. A wind got up, stirring the sea into steep waves, and our little boat seemed to rise almost to the perpendicular, only to crash down again, bow first, and saturate us with salt water. If anything, it was worse than before, because this time there was no shelter. Cicero and I sat huddled in hooded cloaks while the men tried to row us crosswise into the oncoming waves. The hull began to fill and the vessel became dangerously low. We all had to help bail, even Cicero, frantically scooping up the freezing water with our hands and tipping it over the side to stop ourselves sinking. Our limbs and faces were numb. We swallowed salt. The rain blinded us. Eventually, after rowing bravely for many hours, the sailors were exhausted, and told us they needed to rest. We rounded a rocky promontory and headed towards a cove, rowing as close to the beach as we could before we all had to jump out and wade ashore. Cicero sank in almost to his waist and four of the sailors had to carry him on to the land. They laid him down and went back to help their crewmates with the boat, hauling it right up on to the beach. They laid it on its side and propped it up using branches cut from the nearby myrtle trees, and with the sail and the mast they built a makeshift shelter. They even managed to light a fire, although the wood was wet, and the wind blew the smoke this way and that, choking us and making our eyes smart.
Darkness soon came, and Cicero, who had not uttered a word of complaint, appeared to sleep. Thus ended the fifth day of December.
I woke at dawn on the sixth after a fitful night to find calmer skies. My bones were chilled, my damp clothes stiff with salt and sand. I stood with difficulty and looked about me. Everyone was still asleep, except for Cicero. He had gone.
I looked up and down the beach and peered out to sea, then turned to scan the trees. There was a small gap, which turned out to lead to a path, and I set off, calling his name. At the top of the path was a road. Cicero was lurching along it. I called to him again but he ignored me. He was making slow and unsteady progress in the direction from which we had come. I caught him up and fell in beside him and spoke to him with a calmness I did not feel.
‘We need to get back in the boat,’ I said. ‘The slaves in the house may have told the legionaries where we are headed. They may not be far behind us. Where are you going?’
‘To Rome.’ He did not look at me but kept on walking.
‘To do what?’
‘To kill myself on Octavian’s doorstep. He will die of shame.’
‘He won’t,’ I said, and caught his arm, ‘because he has no shame, and the soldiers will torture you to death like they did Trebonius.’
He glanced at me and stopped walking. ‘Do you think so?’
‘I know it.’ I took him by the arm and tugged him gently. He did not resist but lowered his head and allowed me to lead him like a child back through the trees to the beach.
How melancholy it is to relive all of this! But I have no choice if I am to fulfil my promise to him and tell the story of his life.
We put him back on to the boat and launched it once more into the waves. The day was grey and vast, as at the dawn of time. We rowed on for many hours, assisted by a breeze that filled the sail, and by the end of the afternoon had covered, by my reckoning, a further twenty-five miles or thereabouts. We passed the famous Temple of Apollo that stands a little above the sea on the headland at Caieta, and Cicero, who had been slumped, staring vacantly towards the shore, suddenly recognised it, sat up straight and said, ‘We are nearly at Formiae. I have a house here.’
‘I know you do.’
‘Let us put in here for the night.’
‘It’s too risky. You’re well known to have a villa at Formiae.’
‘I don’t care about that,’ replied Cicero with something of his old firmness. ‘I want to sleep in my own bed.’
And so we rowed towards the shore and tied up at the jetty that was built out into the sea a little way from the villa. As we moored, a great flock of crows rose cawing from the nearby trees as if in warning, and I asked Cicero at least to allow me to make sure his enemies weren’t lying in wait for him before he disembarked. He agreed, and I set off up the familiar path through the trees, accompanied by a couple of the sailors. The path led us to the Via Appia. By now it was almost dusk. The road was empty. I walked about fifty paces to where Cicero’s villa stood behind a pair of iron gates. I went up the drive and knocked firmly on the oak door, and after a short interval and a great noise of bolts drawn back, the porter appeared. He was startled to see me. I looked past his shoulder and asked if any strangers had come looking for the master. He assured me they had not. He was a good-hearted, simple fellow. I had known him for years, and I believed him.
I said, ‘In that case, send four slaves with a litter down to the jetty to pick up the master and bring him to the villa, and meanwhile have a hot bath drawn for him and fresh clothes and food prepared, for he is in a poor state.’
I also sent two other slaves with fast horses to keep a lookout along the Via Appia for this mysterious and ominous detachment of legionaries that seemed to be on our trail.
Cicero was carried into the villa, and the gate and door were locked behind him.
I saw little of him after that. As soon as he had had his bath, he took a little food and wine in his room and then retired to sleep.
I slept myself – and very deeply, despite my anxieties, for such was my exhaustion – and the following morning had to be roughly woken by one of the slaves I had stationed along the Via Appia. He was out of breath and frightened. A force of thirty legionaries on foot, with a centurion and a tribune on horseback, was marching towards the house from the north-west. They were less than half an hour away.
I ran to wake Cicero. He had the covers up to his chin and refused to stir, but I tore them off him anyway.
‘They are coming for you,’ I said, bending over him. ‘They’re almost here. We have to move.’
He smiled at me, and laid his hand on my cheek. ‘Let them come, old friend. I am not afraid.’
I pleaded with him: ‘For my sake, if not for yours – for the sake of your friends and for Marcus – please move!’
I think it was the mention of Marcus that did it. He sighed. ‘Very well, then. But it is quite pointless.’
I withdrew to let him dress and ran around issuing orders – a litter to be ready immediately, the boat prepared to sail with the sailors at their oars, the gate and the door to be locked the moment we were out of the villa, the household slaves to vacate the premises and hide wherever they could.
In my imagination I could hear the steady tramp of the legionaries’ boots becoming louder and louder …
At length – far too great a length! – Cicero appeared looking as immaculate as if he were on his way to address the Senate. He walked through the villa saying goodbye to everyone. They were all in tears. He took a last look around as if saying farewell to the building and all his beloved possessions, and then climbed into the litter, closed the curtains so that no one could see his face, and we set off out of the gate. But instead of the slaves all making a run for it, they seized such weapons as they could find – rakes, brooms, pokers, kitchen knives – and insisted on coming with us, forming a homely rustic phalanx around the litter. We went the short distance along the road and turned down the path into the woods. Through the trees I could glimpse the sea shining in the morning sun. Escape seemed close. But then, at the bottom of the path, just before it opened out on to the beach, a dozen legionaries appeared.
The slaves at the front of our little procession cried out in alarm, and those carrying the litter scrambled to turn it round. It swayed dangerously and Cicero was almost pitched to the ground. We struggled back the way we had come, only to discover that more soldiers were above us, block
ing access to the road.
We were trapped, outnumbered, doomed. Nevertheless, we determined to make a fight. The slaves set the litter down and surrounded it. Cicero drew back the curtain to see what was going on. He saw the soldiers advancing rapidly towards us and shouted to me: ‘No one is to fight!’ Then to the slaves he said: ‘Everyone lay down your weapons! I am honoured by your devotion, but the only blood that needs to be shed here is mine.’
The legionaries had their swords drawn. The military tribune leading them was a hirsute, swarthy-looking brute. Beneath the ridge of his helmet his eyebrows merged together to form a continuous thick black line. He called out, ‘Marcus Tullius Cicero, I have a warrant for your execution.’
Cicero, still lying in his litter, his chin in his hand, looked him up and down very calmly. ‘I know you,’ he said, ‘I’m sure of it. What’s your name?’
The military tribune, plainly taken aback, said, ‘My name, if you must know it, is Caius Popillius Laenas, and yes, we do know one another: not that it will save you.’
‘Popillius,’ murmured Cicero, ‘that’s it,’ and then he turned to me. ‘Do you remember this man, Tiro? He was our client – that fifteen-year-old who murdered his father, right at the beginning of my career. He’d have been condemned to death for parricide if I hadn’t got him off – on condition he went into the army.’ He laughed. ‘This is a kind of justice, I suppose.’
I looked at Popillius and indeed I did remember him.
Popillius said, ‘That’s enough talk. The verdict of the Constitutional Commission is that the death sentence should be carried out immediately.’ He gestured to his soldiers to drag Cicero from his litter.
‘Wait,’ said Cicero, ‘leave me where I am. I have it in mind to die this way,’ and he propped himself up on his elbows like a defeated gladiator, threw back his head and offered his throat to the sky.
‘If that’s what you want,’ said Popillius. He turned to his centurion. ‘Let’s get it over with.’
The centurion took up his position. He braced his legs. He swung his sword. The blade flashed, and in that instant for Cicero the mystery that had plagued him all his life was solved, and liberty was extinguished from the earth.
Afterwards they cut off his head and hands and put them in a sack. They made us sit down and watch them while they did it. Then they marched away. I was told that Antony was so delighted with these extra trophies that he gave Popillius a bonus of a million sesterces. It is also said that Fulvia pierced Cicero’s tongue with a needle. I do not know. What is certainly true is that on Antony’s orders the head that had delivered the Philippics and the hands that had written them were nailed up on the rostra, as a warning to others who might think of opposing the Triumvirate, and they stayed there for many years, until finally they rotted and fell away.
After the killers had gone, we carried Cicero’s body down to the beach and built a pyre, and at dusk we burned it. Then I made my way south to my farm on the Bay of Naples.
Little by little I learned more of what had happened.
Quintus was soon afterwards captured with his son and put to death.
Atticus emerged from hiding and was pardoned by Antony because of the help he had given Fulvia.
And much, much later, Antony committed suicide together with his mistress Cleopatra after Octavian defeated them in battle. The boy is now the Emperor Augustus.
But I have written enough.
Many years have passed since the episodes I have recounted. At first I thought I would never recover from Cicero’s death. But time wipes out everything, even grief. Indeed, I would go so far as to say that grief is almost entirely a question of perspective. For the first few years I used to sigh and think, ‘Well, he would still be in his sixties now,’ and then a decade later, with surprise, ‘My goodness, he would be seventy-five,’ but nowadays I think, ‘Well, he would be long since dead in any case, so what does it matter how he died in comparison with how he lived?’
My work is done. My book is finished. Soon I will die too.
In the summer evenings I sit on the terrace with Agathe, my wife. She sews while I look at the stars. Always at such moments I think of Scipio’s dream of where dead statesmen dwell in On the Republic:
I gazed in every direction and all appeared wonderfully beautiful. There were stars which we never see from earth, and they were all larger than we have ever imagined. The starry spheres were much greater than the earth; indeed the earth itself seemed to me so small that I was scornful of our empire, which covers only a single point, as it were, upon its surface.
‘If only you will look on high,’ the old statesman tells Scipio, ‘and contemplate this eternal home and resting place, you will no longer bother with the gossip of the common herd or put your trust in human reward for your exploits. Nor will any man’s reputation endure very long, for what men say dies with them and is blotted out with the forgetfulness of posterity.’
All that will remain of us is what is written down.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
AFRANIUS, LUCIUS an ally of Pompey’s from his home region of Picenum; one of Pompey’s army commanders in the war against Mithradates; consul in 60 BC
AGRIPPA, MARCUS VIPSANIUS Octavian’s closest associate, aged twenty
AHENOBARBUS, LUCIUS DOMITIUS patrician senator; praetor in 58 BC; married to Cato’s sister; a determined enemy of Caesar
ANTONY, MARK (MARCUS ANTONIUS) renowned as a brave and enterprising soldier under Caesar’s command in Gaul; grandson of a famous orator and consul; stepson of one of the Catiline conspirators executed by Cicero
ATTICUS, TITUS POMPONIUS Cicero’s closest friend; an equestrian, an Epicurean, immensely wealthy; brother-in-law to Quintus Cicero, who is married to his sister, Pomponia
BALBUS, LUCIUS CORNELIUS wealthy Spaniard originally allied to Pompey and then to Caesar, whose homme d’affaires he became in Rome
BIBULUS, MARCUS CALPURNIUS Caesar’s colleague as consul in 59 BC, and his staunch opponent
BRUTUS, MARCUS JUNIUS direct descendant of the Brutus who drove the kings from Rome and established the republic in the sixth century BC; son of Servilia, nephew of Cato; the great figurehead of the constitutionalists
CAESAR, GAIUS JULIUS former consul; a member of the ‘triumvirate’ with Pompey and Crassus; governor of three Roman provinces – Nearer and Further Gaul and Bithynia; six years Cicero’s junior; married to Calpurnia, daughter of L. Calpurnius Piso
CALENUS, QUINTUS FUFIUS an old crony of Clodius and Antony; a supporter of Caesar and an enemy of Cicero; father-in-law of Pansa
CASSIUS, GAIUS LONGINUS senator and able soldier; married to Servilia’s daughter, Junia Tertia, and thus Brutus’s brother-in-law
CATO, MARCUS PORCIUS half-brother of Servilia; uncle of Brutus; a Stoic and a stern upholder of the traditions of the republic
CICERO, MARCUS TULLIUS JUNIOR Cicero’s son
CICERO, QUINTUS TULLIUS Cicero’s younger brother; senator and soldier; married to Pomponia, the sister of Atticus; governor of Asia, 61–58 BC
CICERO, QUINTUS TULLIUS JUNIOR Cicero’s nephew
CLODIA daughter of one of the most distinguished families in Rome, the patrician Appii Claudii; the sister of Clodius; the widow of Metellus Celer
CLODIUS PULCHER, PUBLIUS scion of the leading patrician dynasty, the Appii Claudii; a former brother-in-law of L. Lucullus; the brother of Clodia, with whom he is alleged to have had an incestuous affair; at his trial for sacrilege Cicero gave evidence against him; transferred to the plebs at the instigation of Caesar and elected tribune
CORNUTUS, MARCUS one of Caesar’s officers, appointed urban praetor in 44 BC
CRASSIPES, FURIUS Tullia’s second husband; a senator; a friend of Crassus
CRASSUS, MARCUS LICINIUS former consul; member of the ‘triumvirate’; brutal suppressor of the slave revolt led by Spartacus; the richest man in Rome; a bitter rival of Pompey
CRASSUS, PUBLIUS son of Crassus the triumvir; cavalry commander u
nder Caesar in Gaul; an admirer of Cicero
DECIMUS properly styled BRUTUS, DECIMUS JUNIUS ALBINUS, but not to be confused with BRUTUS (above); brilliant young military commander in Gaul; a protégé of Caesar
DOLABELLA, PUBLIUS CORNELIUS Tullia’s third husband; one of Caesar’s closest lieutenants – young, charming, precocious, ambitious, licentious, brutal
FULVIA wife of Clodius; subsequently married to Mark Antony
HIRTIUS, AULUS one of Caesar’s staff officers in Gaul, groomed for a political career; a noted gourmet, a scholar who helped Caesar with his Commentaries
HORTENSIUS HORTALUS, QUINTUS former consul, for many years the leading advocate at the Roman bar, until displaced by Cicero; a leader of the patrician faction; immensely wealthy; like Cicero, a civilian politician and not a soldier
ISAURICUS, PUBLIUS SERVILIUS VATIA a patrician, son of one of the grand old men of the Senate, who nevertheless chose to support Caesar; elected praetor in 54 BC
LABIENUS, TITUS a soldier and former tribune from Pompey’s home region of Picenum; one of Caesar’s ablest commanders in Gaul
LEPIDUS, MARCUS AEMILIUS patrician senator, married to a daughter of Servilia; member of the College of Pontiffs
MILO, TITUS ANNIUS a tough street-wise politician, an owner of gladiators
NEPOS, QUINTUS CAECILIUS METELLUS consul at the time of Cicero’s return from exile
OCTAVIAN, GAIUS JULIUS CAESAR Caesar’s great-nephew and heir
PANSA, GAIUS VIBIUS one of Caesar’s commanders in Gaul
PHILIPPUS, LUCIUS MARCIUS consul soon after Cicero’s return from exile; married to Caesar’s niece, Atia, and thus the stepfather of Octavian; owner of a villa next door to Cicero’s on the Bay of Naples
PHILOTIMUS Terentia’s business manager, of questionable honesty
PISO, LUCIUS CALPURNIUS consul at the time of Cicero’s exile, and thus an enemy of Cicero’s; Caesar’s father-in-law
PLANCIUS, GNAEUS quaestor of Macedonia; his family were friends from the same region of Italy as the Ciceros
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