Terentia looked up in consternation. 'Whatever is it?' she asked.
I went inside. Cicero had the letter crumpled on his chest. 'Pompey has married again,' he said in a hollow voice. 'He has married Caesar's daughter!'
Against the workings of history Cicero could deploy many weapons: logic, cunning, irony, wit, oratory, experience, his profound knowledge of law and men. But against the alchemy of two naked bodies in a bed in the darkness, and against all the complex longings and attachments and commitments such intimacy might arouse, he had nothing with which to fight. Strange as it may seem, the prospect of a marriage between the two had never occurred to him. Pompey was nearly forty-seven. Julia was fourteen. Only Caesar, raged Cicero, could have prostituted his child in a manner so cynical and repulsive and depraved. He railed against it for an hour or two – 'Imagine it: him, and her: together!' – and then, when he had calmed down, wrote a letter of congratu lations to the bride and groom. As soon as he returned to Rome, he went to see them with a gift. I carried it in for him in a sandalwood box, and after he had delivered his prepared speech about the celestial radiance of their union, I placed it in his hands.
'Now who is in charge of receiving the presents in this household?' he asked with a smile, and he took half a step towards Pompey, who naturally reached out to take it, before Cicero abruptly turned away and gave the box to Julia with a bow. She laughed, and so after a moment or two did Pompey, although he wagged his finger at Cicero and called him a mischievous fellow. I must say that Julia had grown up to be a most charming young woman – pretty, graceful and obviously kind, and yet the peculiar thing was that one could see her father in every line of her face and gesture of her body. It was as if all the gaiety had been sucked out of him and blown into her. And the other amazing thing was that she was very clearly in love with Pompey. She opened the box and took out Cicero's gift – it was an exquisite silver dish, if I remember rightly, with their entwined initials engraved upon it – and when she showed it to Pompey, she held his hand and stroked his cheek. He beamed and kissed her on her forehead. Cicero regarded the happy couple with the fixed smile of a dinner guest who has just swallowed something very unpleasant but does not want to reveal the fact to his hosts.
'You must come and see us again soon,' said Julia. 'I wish to know you better. My father says you are the cleverest man in Rome.'
'He's very gracious, but alas, I must yield that prize to him.'
Pompey insisted on showing Cicero to the door himself. 'Isn't she delightful?'
'Very.'
'I tell you frankly, Cicero, I am happier with her than with any woman I have ever known. She makes me feel quite twenty years younger. Or even thirty.'
'At this rate you will soon be in your infancy,' joked Cicero. 'Congratulations again.' We had reached the atrium – to which, I noticed, the cloak of Alexander the Great and the pearl-encrusted head of Pompey had now been banished. 'And I assume relations with your new father-in-law are equally close?'
'Oh, Caesar's not such a bad fellow once you know how to handle him.'
'You are entirely reconciled?'
'We were never estranged.'
'And what about me?' blurted out Cicero, unable to conceal his true feelings any longer. He sounded like a discarded lover. 'What am I supposed to do about this monster Clodius you two have created to torment me?'
'My dear friend, don't worry about him for an instant! He talks a lot but it doesn't mean anything. If ever it really did come to a serious fight, he would have to step over my dead body to get at you.'
'Really?'
'Absolutely.'
'Is that a firm commitment?'
Pompey looked hurt. 'Have I ever let you down?'
Soon afterwards the marriage bore its first fruit. Pompey rose in the senate and read out a motion: that in view of the grievous loss, etc., etc., of Metellus Celer, the province he had been allotted before his death – Further Gaul – should be transferred to Julius Caesar, who had already been granted Nearer Gaul by a vote of the people; that this unified command would henceforth make it easier to crush any future rebellions; and that in view of the unsettled nature of the region, Caesar should be given an additional legion, bringing the total strength at his disposal to five.
Caesar, who was in the chair, asked if there were any objections. He swivelled his head left and right a couple of times, checking if anyone wished to speak, and was just about to move on to 'any other business' when Lucullus got to his feet. The old patrician general was nearing sixty by this time – disdainful, feline, but still magnificent in his way.
'Forgive me, Caesar,' he said, 'but will you also retain the province of Bithynia?'
'I will.'
'So you will now have three provinces?'
'I will.'
'But Bithynia is a thousand miles from Gaul!' Lucullus gave a mocking laugh and looked around the chamber for others to share his amusement. Nobody joined in.
Caesar said quietly, 'We all know our geography, Lucullus, thank you. Now does anyone else wish to speak?'
But Lucullus refused to stop. 'And your term of office,' he persisted, 'will it still be for five years?'
'It will. The people have decreed it. Why? Do you wish to oppose the will of the people?'
'But this is absurd!' cried Lucullus. 'Gentlemen, we cannot allow a single individual, however able, to control twenty-two thousand men on the very borders of Italy for five years. What if he were to move against Rome?'
Cicero was one of a number of senators who shifted uncomfortably on their hard wooden bench. But not one of them – not even Cato – wanted to pick a fight on this issue, for there was not a chance of winning. Lucullus, plainly surprised by the lack of support, sat down grumpily and folded his arms.
Pompey said, 'I fear our friend Lucullus has spent too long with his fish. Things have changed in Rome of late.'
'Clearly,' muttered Lucullus, loud enough for all to hear, 'and not for the better.'
At that Caesar rose. His expression was fixed and cold: almost inhuman, like a Thracian mask. 'I think Lucius Lucullus has forgotten that he commanded more legions than I in his time, and for longer than five years, and yet still the job of defeating Mithradates had to be finished off by my gallant son-in-law.' The supporters of the Beast with Three Heads gave a loud roar of approval. 'I think Lucius Lucullus's period as commander-in-chief might well bear investigation, perhaps by a special court. I think Lucius Lucullus's finances would certainly bear scrutiny – the people would be interested to know where he obtained his great wealth. And I think in the meantime that Lucius Lucullus should apologise to this house for his insulting insinuation.'
Lucullus glanced around. No one returned his gaze. To be hauled before a special court at his age, and with so much to explain, would be unbearable. Swallowing hard, he stood. 'If my words have offended you, Caesar—' he began.
'On his knees!' bellowed Caesar.
Lucullus looked suddenly very old and baffled. 'What?' he asked.
'He should apologise on his knees!' repeated Caesar.
I could not bear to watch, and yet at the same time it was impossible to tear one's eyes away, for the ending of a great career is an awesome thing to behold, like the felling of a mighty tree. For a moment or two longer, Lucullus remained upright. Then, very creakily, with joints stiff from years of military campaigning, he got down first on one knee and then on the other, and bowed his head to Caesar, while the senate looked on in silence.
A few days later, Cicero had to dip into his purse again to buy another wedding present, this time for Caesar.
Everyone had assumed that if Caesar remarried it would be to Servilia, who had been his mistress for several years, and whose husband, the former consul, Junius Silanus, had recently died. Indeed, around this time, such a marriage was rumoured actually to have taken place, when Servilia attended a dinner wearing a pearl that she announced the consul had given her, and which was worth sixty thousand gold pieces. But no: the very n
ext week, Caesar took as his bride the daughter of Lucius Calpurnius Piso – a long, thin, plain girl of twenty, of whom no one had ever heard. After some deliberation, Cicero decided not to send his wedding gift round to Caesar by courier, but to hand it to him personally. Again it was a dish of silver with engraved initials; again it was in a sandalwood box; and again I was charged with looking after it. I duly waited with it outside the senate until the session was over, and when Caesar and Cicero strolled out together I took it over to them.
'This is just a small gift from Terentia and me to you and Calpurnia,' said Cicero, taking it out of my hands and giving it to Caesar, 'to wish you both a long and happy marriage.'
'Thank you,' said Caesar, 'that is thoughtful of you,' and without looking at it he passed the box to one of his attendants. 'Perhaps,' he added, 'while you're in this generous mood, you could also give us your vote.'
'My vote?'
'Yes, my wife's father is standing for the consulship.'
'Ah,' said Cicero, a look of comprehension spreading across his face, 'now it all makes sense. Frankly, I had wondered why you were marrying Calpurnia.'
'Rather than Servilia?' Caesar smiled and shrugged. 'That's politics.'
'And how is Servilia?'
'She understands.' Caesar seemed about to move on, then checked himself, as if he had just remembered something. 'Incidentally, what are you planning to do about our mutual friend Clodius?'
'I never give him a moment's thought,' replied Cicero. (This was a lie, of course: in truth he thought of little else.)
'That's wise,' nodded Caesar. 'He isn't worth the waste of one's mental processes. Still, I wonder what he will do when he becomes tribune.'
'I expect he will bring a prosecution against me.'
'That shouldn't worry you. You could beat him in any court in Rome.'
'He must know that too. Therefore I expect he will choose ground more favourable to him. A special court of some kind – one that ensures I am judged by the whole of the Roman people on the Field of Mars.'
'That would be harder for you.'
'I have armed myself with the facts and stand ready to defend myself. Besides, I seem to remember I beat you on the Field of Mars, when you brought a charge against Rabirius.'
'Don't bring that up! I still bear the scars!' Caesar's sharp and mirthless laughter stopped as abruptly as it had started. 'Listen, Cicero, if he does become a threat, never forget that I would stand ready to help you.'
Obviously taken aback by the offer, Cicero enquired, 'Really? How?'
'With this combined command I shall be heavily involved in military campaigning. I'll need a legate to handle civil administration in Gaul. You would fill the post ideally. You wouldn't actually have to spend much time there – you could come back to Rome as often as you liked. But if I put you on my staff, it would give you immunity from prosecution. Think about it. Now, if you will excuse me?' And with a polite nod he moved off to deal with the dozen or so other senators who were clamouring for a word with him.
Cicero watched him go with amazement. 'That's a handsome offer,' he said, 'very handsome indeed. We must send him a letter saying we'll bear it in mind, just so we have it on the record.'
That was what we did. And when Caesar replied the same day confirming that the legateship was Cicero's if he wanted it, Cicero for the first time began to feel more confident.
That year's elections were held later than usual, thanks to Bibulus's repeated intercessions claiming that the auguries were unfavourable. But the evil day could not be postponed for ever, and in October Clodius achieved his heart's ambition and topped the poll for tribune of the plebs. Cicero spared himself the torment of going down to the Field of Mars to listen to the result. In any case he did not need to: we could hear the roars of excitement without leaving the house.
On the tenth day of December, Clodius was sworn in as tribune. Again Cicero kept to his library. But the cheers were such that we could not escape them even with the doors closed and the windows shuttered, and presently word came up from the forum that Clodius had already posted details of his proposed legislation on the walls of the Temple of Saturn. 'He's not wasting his time,' said Cicero with a grim expression. 'Very well, Tiro. Go down and find out what fate Little Miss Beauty has in mind for us.'
My state of mind as I descended the steps to the forum was, as you can imagine, one of great trepidation. The meeting was over, but small groups of people stood around discussing what they had just heard. There was an excited atmosphere, as if they had all witnessed some spectacular event and needed to share their impressions with one another. I went over to the Temple of Saturn and had to shoulder my way through the crowds to see what all the fuss was about. Four bills had been pinned up. I took out my stylus and wax tablet. One was designed to stop any consul in the future behaving like Bibulus, by restricting the ancient right to proclaim unfavourable auguries. The second reduced the censors' powers to remove senators. The third allowed neighbourhood clubs to resume meeting (such associations had been banned by the senate six years previously for rowdy behaviour). And the fourth – the one that obviously had got everyone talking – entitled every citizen, for the first time in Rome's history, to a free monthly dole of bread.
I copied down the gist of each bill and hurried home to Cicero to report on their contents. He had his secret consular history unrolled on the table in front of him, and was ready to begin work on his defence. When I told him what Clodius was proposing, he sat back in his chair, thoroughly mystified. 'So, no word about me at all?'
'None.'
'Don't tell me he's planning to leave me alone after all his threatening talk.'
'Perhaps he's not as confident as he pretends.'
'Read me those bills again.' I did as he asked, and he listened with his eyes half closed, concentrating on every word. 'This is all very popular stuff,' he observed when I had finished. 'Free bread for life. A party on every street corner. No wonder it has gone down well.' He thought for a while. 'Do you know what he expects me to do, Tiro?'
'No.'
'He expects me to oppose these laws, merely because he is the one who has put them forward. He wants me to, in fact. Then he can turn round and say, “Look at Cicero, the friend of the rich! He thinks it is fine for senators to eat well and make merry, but woe betide the poor if they ask for a bit of bread and a chance to relax after their hard day's work!” You see? He plans to lure me into opposing him, then drag me before the plebs on the Field of Mars and accuse me of acting like a king. Well damn him! I shan't give him the satisfaction. I'll show him I can play a cleverer game than that.'
I am still not sure, if Cicero had set his mind to it, how much of Clodius's legislation he could have stopped. He had a tame tribune, Ninnius Quadratus, ready to use a veto on his behalf, and plenty of respectable citizens in the senate and among the equestrians would have come to his aid. These were the men who believed that free bread would make the poor dependent on the state and rot their morals. It would cost the treasury one hundred million sesterces a year and make the state itself dependent on revenues from abroad. They also thought that neighbourhood clubs fostered immoral pursuits, and that the organising of communal activities was best left to the official religious cults. In all this they may well have been right. But Cicero was more flexible. He recognised that times had changed. 'Pompey has flooded this republic with easy money,' he told me. 'That's what they forget. A hundred million is nothing to him. Either the poor will have their share or they will have our heads – and in Clodius they have found a leader.'
Cicero therefore decided not to raise his voice against Clodius's bills, and for one last brief moment – like the final flare of a guttering candle – he enjoyed something of his old popularity. He told Quadratus to do nothing, refused himself to condemn Clodius's plans, and was cheered in the street when he announced that he would not challenge the proposed laws. On the first day of January, when the senate met under the new consuls, he was awarded third plac
e in the order of speaking after Pompey and Crassus – a signal honour. And when the presiding consul, Caesar's father-in-law, Calpurnius Piso, called on him to give his opinions, he used the occasion to make one of his great appeals for unity and reconciliation. 'I shall not oppose, or obstruct, or seek to frustrate,' he said, 'the laws that have been placed before us by our colleague Clodius, and I pray that out of difficult times, a new concord between senate and people may be forged.'
These words were met with a great ovation, and when the time came for Clodius to respond, he made an equally fulsome reply. 'It is not so long ago that Marcus Cicero and I enjoyed the friendliest of relations,' he said, with tears of sincere emotion in his eyes. 'I believe that mischief was made between us by a certain person close to him' – this was generally taken as a reference to Terentia's rumoured jealousy of Clodia – 'and I applaud his statesmanlike attitude to the people's just demands.'
Two days later, when Clodius's bills became law, the hills and valleys of Rome echoed with excitement as the neighbourhood clubs met to celebrate their restoration. It was not a spontaneous demonstration, but carefully organised by Clodius's man of affairs, a scribe named Cloelius. Poor men, freedmen and slaves alike chased pigs through the streets and sacrificed them without any priests to supervise the rites, then roasted the meat on the street corners. They did not stop their revels as night fell, but lit torches and braziers and continued to sing and dance. (It was unseasonably warm, and that always swells a crowd.) They drank until they vomited. They fornicated in the alleyways. They formed gangs and fought one another till blood ran in the gutters. In the smarter neighbourhoods, especially on the Palatine, the well-to-do cowered in their houses and waited for these Dionysian convulsions to pass. Cicero watched from his terrace, and I could see he was already wondering if he had made a mistake. But when Quadratus came to him and asked if he should gather some of the other magistrates from around the city and try to disperse the crowds, he replied that it was too late – the water was well and truly boiling now, and the lid would no longer fit back on the cooking pot.
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