On the morning of the battle, Catilina addressed his soldiers, many of whom were armed only with pitchforks and hunting spears, in the following terms: 'Men, we fight for our country, our freedom and our life, whereas our opponents fight for a corrupt oligarchy. Their numbers may be greater but our spirit is stronger, and we will prevail. But if for any reason we do not, and Fortune turns against us, do not allow yourselves to be slaughtered like cattle, but fight like men and make sure that bloodshed and mourning are the price that the enemy will pay for victory.' The trumpets then sounded and the front lines advanced towards one another.
It was a terrible carnage and Catilina was in the thick of it all day. Not one of his lieutenants surrendered. They fought with the ferocious abandon of men with nothing to lose. Only when Petreius sent in a crack praetorian cohort did the rebel army finally collapse. Every one of Catilina's followers, including Manlius, died where he stood; afterwards their wounds were found to be entirely in the front and none in the back. At nightfall, after the battle, Catilina was discovered deep inside his opponents' lines, surrounded by the corpses of the enemies he had hacked to pieces. He was still just breathing, but died soon afterwards from terrible wounds. On Hybrida's instructions his head was sent back to Rome in a barrel of ice and presented to the senate. But Cicero, who had left the consulship a few days earlier, refused to look at it, and thus ended the conspiracy of Lucius Sergius Catilina.
PART TWO
PATER
PATRIAE
62–58 BC
Nam Catonem nostrum non tu amas plus quam ego; sed tamen
ille optimo animo utens et summa fide nocet interdum rei
publicae; dicit enim tamquam in Platonis politeia, non
tamquam in Romuli faece, sententiam.
As for our friend Cato, I have as warm a regard for him as you. But the fact remains that with all his patriotism and integrity he is sometimes a political liability. He speaks in the senate as though he were living in Plato's Republic rather than Romulus's shit hole.
Cicero, letter to Atticus, 3 June 60 BC
XII
For the first few weeks after he ceased to be consul, everyone clamoured to hear the story of how Cicero had foiled the conspiracy of Catilina. There was not a fashionable dinner table in Rome that was not open to him. He went out often; he hated to be alone. Frequently I would accompany him, standing with other members of his entourage behind his couch as he regaled his fellow diners with extracts from his speeches, or the story of how he had escaped assassination on polling day on the Field of Mars, or the trap he had set on the Mulvian Bridge for Lentulus Sura. Usually he illustrated these tales by moving plates and cups around, in the manner of Pompey describing an old battle. If someone interrupted him or tried to raise another subject, he would wait impatiently for a gap in their conversation, give them a hard look and then resume: 'As I was saying …' Every morning the grandest of the grand families would flock to his levees and he would point to the very spot where Catilina had stood on the day he offered to be his prisoner, or to the exact pieces of furniture that had been used to barricade the door when the conspirators laid siege to the house. In the senate, whenever he rose to speak, a respectful hush fell over the assembly, and he never missed a chance to remind them that they were only meeting together at all because he had saved the republic. He became, in short – and whoever would have imagined saying this of Cicero? – a bore.
It would have been so much better for him if he had left Rome for a year or two to govern a province; his mystique would have grown with his absence; he would have become a legend. But he had given away his governorships to Hybrida and Celer and there was nothing for him to do except to stay in the city and resume his legal practice. Familiarity makes even the most fascinating figure dull: one would probably be bored with Jupiter Himself if one passed Him on the street every day. Slowly Cicero's lustre faded. For several weeks he busied himself dictating to me an immense report on his consulship, which he wanted to present to Pompey. It was the size of a book and justified his every action in minute detail. I knew it was a mistake and tried all the tactics I could think of to delay sending it – to no avail. Off it went by special courier to the East, and while he awaited the great man's reply, Cicero set about editing and publishing the speeches he had delivered during the crisis. He inserted many purple passages about himself, especially in the public address he had made from the rostra on the day the plotters were arrested. I was sufficiently worried that one morning, when Atticus was leaving the house, I drew him aside and read out a couple of sections.
'This day on which we are saved is, I believe, as bright and joyous as the day on which we were born. And just as we thank the gods for the man who founded this city, so you and your descendants will be able to hold in honour the man who has saved the city.'
'What?' exclaimed Atticus. 'I don't remember him saying that.'
'Well he didn't,' I replied. 'For him to have compared himself to Romulus at such a moment would have seemed absurd. And listen to this.' I lowered my voice and looked around to make sure Cicero was nowhere near. 'In recognition of such great services, citizens, I shall demand of you no reward for my valour, no signal mark of distinction, no monument in my honour, except that this day be remembered for all time, and that the immortal gods should be thanked that there have arisen at such a moment in our history two men, one of whom has carried your empire to the limits not of earth but of heaven, and one who has preserved the home and seat of this empire …'
'Let me see that,' demanded Atticus. He grabbed the speech from my hands and read it through, shaking his head in disbelief. 'Putting yourself on the same level as Romulus is one thing: comparing yourself with Pompey is quite another. It would be dangerous enough if someone else said it about him, but for him to say it about himself … ? Let's just hope Pompey doesn't get to hear of it.'
'He's bound to.'
'Why?'
'I've been ordered to send him a copy.' Once again I checked that no one was listening. 'Forgive me, sir, if I am speaking out of turn,' I said, 'but I'm becoming quite concerned about him. He's not been the same since the executions. He isn't sleeping well, he won't listen to anyone, and yet he can't bear to spend even an hour by himself. I think the sight of the dead men has affected him – you know how squeamish he is.'
'It's not his delicate stomach that's troubling him, it's his conscience. If he were entirely satisfied that what he did was right, he wouldn't feel the need to justify himself so endlessly.'
It was a shrewd remark, and I feel sorrier for Cicero in retrospect than I did at the time, for it must be a lonely business trying to turn oneself into a public monument. However, by far his greatest folly was not the vainglorious letter to Pompey, or the endless boasting, or the amended speeches: it was a house.
Cicero was not the first politician, and I am sure he will not be the last, to covet a house beyond his means. In his case the property was the boarded-up mansion on the Palatine next to Celer's on Victory Rise that he had noticed when he went to persuade the praetor to take command of the army against Catilina. It now belonged to Crassus, but before that it had been the property of the immensely wealthy tribune M. Livius Drusus. The story went that the architect who built it had promised Drusus he would make sure he was not overlooked by any of his neighbours. 'No,' responded Drusus, 'rather construct it so that all my fellow citizens may see everything I do.' That was the sort of place it was: high up on the hill, tall, wide and ostentatious, easily visible from every part of the forum and the Capitol. Celer's house was on one side of it, and on the other was a large public garden and a portico that had been put up by Catulus's father. I do not know who planted the idea of buying the house in Cicero's head. I fancy it might have been Clodia. Certainly she told him over dinner one night that it was still on the market and that it would be 'wonderfully amusing' to have him as a next-door neighbour. Naturally that was enough to set Terentia dead against the purchase from the start.
'It
is modern and it is vulgar,' she told him. 'It is a parvenu's idea of where a gentleman might live.'
'I am the Father of the Nation. The people will like the idea that I am looking down on them in a paternal manner. And it's where we deserve to be, up there among the Claudii, the Aemilii Scauri, the Metelli – the Ciceros are a great family now. Besides, I thought you hated this place.'
'It's not moving in principle I object to, husband; it's moving there. And how can you possibly afford it? It's one of the largest houses in Rome – it must be worth at least ten million.'
'I shall go and talk to Crassus. Maybe he'll let me have it cheap.'
Crassus's own mansion, which was also on the Palatine, was deceptively modest on the outside, especially for a man who was rumoured to have eight thousand amphorae filled with silver coin. Inside he sat with his abacus and his account books and the team of slaves and freedmen who ran his business interests. I accompanied Cicero when he went to see him, and after a little preliminary talk about the political situation, Cicero broached the subject of the Drusus house.
'Do you want to buy it?' asked Crassus, suddenly alert.
'I might. How much is it?'
'Fourteen million.'
'Ouch! That's too expensive for me, I fear.'
'I'd let you have it for ten.'
'That's generous, but it's still out of my range.'
'Eight?'
'No, really, Crassus – I appreciate it, but I should never have brought the subject up.' Cicero started to rise from his chair.
'Six?' offered Crassus. 'Four?'
Cicero sat down again. 'I could possibly manage three.'
'Shall we settle on three and a half?'
Afterwards, as we were walking home, I tried gently to suggest that taking possession of such a house for a quarter of its true value would not go down well with the voters. They would smell something fishy about it. 'Who cares about the voters?' replied Cicero. 'I'm barred from standing for the consulship for the next ten years whatever I do. In any case, they need never know how much I paid for it.'
'It will get out somehow,' I warned.
'For gods' sake, will you stop lecturing me about how I am to live? It is bad enough hearing it from my wife, without taking it from my secretary! Haven't I earned the right to some luxury at long last? Half this town would be nothing but charred brick and ashes if it weren't for me! Which reminds me – have we heard back from Pompey yet?'
'No,' I said, bowing my head.
I let the matter drop, but I continued to be troubled. I was absolutely certain that Crassus would expect something in return for his money; either that, or he hated Cicero so much he was willing to forfeit ten million simply to make the people envy and resent him. My secret hope was that Cicero would come to his senses in a day or two, not least because I knew that actually he did not have three and a half million sesterces, or anything like it. But Cicero always took the view that income should adjust to meet expenditure rather than the other way round. He had set his heart on moving up to Victory Rise to dwell among the pantheon of the great names of the republic, and was determined to find the cash somehow. He soon discovered a way.
Almost every day at this time one of the surviving conspirators was to be found on trial in the forum. Autronius Paetus, Cassius Longinus, Marcus Laeca, the two would-be assassins Vargunteius and Cornelius, and many more passed through the courts in a dismal procession. In each case Cicero was a witness for the prosecution, and such was his prestige that a word from him was invariably sufficient to sway the court. One after another they were found guilty – although, fortunately for them, because the emergency was now over, they were not sentenced to death. Instead, each was stripped of his citizenship and property and sent destitute into exile. Cicero was feared and hated by the conspirators and their families almost more than ever, and it remained necessary for him to go around with guards.
Perhaps the most keenly awaited trial of all was that of Publius Cornelius Sulla, who had been immersed in the conspiracy right up to his noble neck. As the date for his hearing approached, his advocate – inevitably it was Hortensius – came to see Cicero.
'My client has a favour to ask of you,' he said.
'Don't tell me: he would like me to refuse to appear as a witness against him?'
'That's right. He's entirely innocent and has always had the highest regard—'
'Oh, spare me all the hypocrisy. He's guilty and you know it.' Cicero scrutinised Hortensius's bland face, weighing him up. 'Actually, you can tell him I might be willing to hold my tongue in his particular case, but on one condition.'
'And what is that?'
'He gives me a million sesterces.'
I was making my usual note of the conversation, but I must say my hand froze when I heard that. Even Hortensius, who after thirty years at the Roman bar was not shocked by much, looked taken aback. Still, he went off and saw Sulla and came back later that same day.
'My client wishes to make a counter-offer. If you are willing to give the closing speech in his defence, he will pay you two million.'
'Agreed,' said Cicero without any hesitation.
There is little doubt that if Cicero had not struck this bargain, Sulla would have been condemned to exile like all the rest; indeed, it was said he had already transferred a large part of his fortune abroad. So when, on the opening day of the trial, Cicero turned up and sat on the bench reserved for the defence, the prosecuting counsel, Torquatus – an old ally of Cicero – could hardly contain his fury and disappointment. In the course of his summing-up he made a bitter attack on Cicero, accusing him of being a tyrant, of setting himself up as judge and jury, of having been the third foreign-born king of Rome, after Tarquin and Numa. It was painful to hear, and worse, it drew some applause from the spectators in the forum. This expression of popular opinion penetrated even Cicero's carapace of self-regard, and when the time came for him to deliver the closing speech he did venture a kind of apology. 'Yes,' he said, 'I suppose my achievements have made me too proud and bred in me a sort of arrogance. But of those glorious and deathless achievements, I can say only this: I shall be amply rewarded for saving this city and the lives of its citizens if no danger falls upon my person for this great service to all mankind. The forum is full of those men whom I have driven from your throats, gentlemen, but have not removed from mine.'
The speech was effective and Sulla was duly acquitted. But Cicero would have done well to heed these signals of a coming storm. Instead, such was his delight at raising most of the money he needed to buy his new house, he quickly shrugged off the incident. He was now only one and a half million short of the full sum, and for this he turned to the moneylenders. They required security, and therefore he told at least two of them, in confidence, of his agreement with Hybrida and his expectation of a share of the revenues from Macedonia. It was good enough to clinch the deal, and towards the end of the year we moved in to Victory Rise.
The house was as grand inside as out. Its dining room had a panelled ceiling with gilded rafters. In the hall were golden statues of young men, whose outstretched hands were designed to hold flaming torches. Cicero swapped his cramped study, where we had spent so many memorable hours, for a fine library. Even I had a larger room, which, though it was below ground, was not at all damp, and had a small barred window through which I could smell the flowers in the garden and hear the birdsong early in the morning. I would have preferred to have had my freedom, of course, and a place of my own, but Cicero had never mentioned it, and I was too bashful – and in a curious way, too proud – to ask.
After I had laid out my few belongings and found a hiding place for my life savings, I went and joined Cicero on a tour of the grounds. The colonnaded path took us past a fountain and a summer house, under a pergola and into a rose garden. The few blooms left were fleshy and faded; when Cicero reached out to pluck one, the petals came away. I felt that we were under inspection from the whole of the city: it made me uncomfortable, but that was the
price one paid for the open view, which was indeed amazing. Beyond the Temple of Castor one could clearly see the rostra, and beyond that the senate house itself, and if one looked in the other direction one could just about make out the back of Caesar's official residence. 'I have done it at last,' said Cicero, gazing down at this with a slight smile. 'I have a better house than he has.'
The ceremony of the Good Goddess fell as usual on the fourth day of December. It was exactly a year since the arrest of the conspirators and just a week after we had moved into our new quarters. Cicero had no appointments in court; the senate's order of business was dull. He told me that for once we would not be going down into the city. Instead we would spend the day working on his memoirs.
He had decided to write one version of his autobiography in Latin, for the general reader, and another in Greek for more restricted circulation. He was also trying to persuade a poet to turn his consulship into a verse epic. His first choice, Archias, who had done a similar job for Lucullus, was reluctant to take it on; he said he was too old at sixty to do justice to such an immense theme. Cicero's preferred alternative, the fashionable Thyillus, replied humbly that his meagre skills as a versifier were simply not up to the task. 'Poets!' grumbled Cicero. 'I don't know what is the matter with them. The story of my consulship is an absolute gift to anyone with the slightest spark of imagination. It is beginning to look,' he continued darkly, in a phrase that struck fear into my heart, 'as though I shall have to write this poem myself.'
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