That was all he had to say. He never wept over the loss, and thereafter I barely heard him mention Pompey again.
—
Terentia did not offer to visit Cicero and he did not ask to see her; on the contrary: There is no reason for you to leave home at present, he wrote to her. It is a long, unsafe journey, and I do not see what good you can do if you come. He sat by the fire that winter and brooded on the state of his family. His brother and nephew were still in Greece and writing and speaking about him in the most poisonous terms: Vatinius and Atticus both showed him copies of their letters. His wife, whom he had no desire to meet, was refusing to send him any money to pay for his living expenses; when finally he arranged for Atticus to advance him some cash via a local banker, he discovered that she had deducted two thirds of it for her own use. His son was out all hours drinking with the local soldiers and refusing to attend to his studies: he yearned for war and often did not trouble to hide his contempt for his father’s situation.
But mostly Cicero brooded on his daughter.
He learned from Atticus that Dolabella, who had returned to Rome as tribune of the plebs, now ignored Tullia entirely. He had left the marital home and was having affairs all over the city, most notoriously with Antonia, the wife of Mark Antony (an infidelity that enraged Antony, even though he lived quite openly with his own mistress, Volumnia Cytheris, a nude actress; later he divorced Antonia and married Fulvia, the widow of Clodius). Dolabella gave Tullia no money for her upkeep, and Terentia—despite Cicero’s repeated pleas—was refusing to pay off her creditors, saying it was her husband’s responsibility. Cicero blamed himself entirely for the wreckage of his public and private lives. My ruin is my own work, he wrote to Atticus. Nothing in my adversity is due to chance. I am to blame for it all. Worse than the rest of my afflictions put together, however, is that I shall leave that poor girl despoiled of her father, of her inheritance, of all that was supposed to be hers…
In the spring, with still no word from Caesar who was said to be in Egypt with his latest paramour, Queen Cleopatra, Cicero received a letter from Tullia announcing her intention of joining him in Brundisium. He was alarmed that she should undertake such an arduous expedition alone. But it was too late for him to stop her—she had made sure she was already on the road before he learned of her intentions—and I shall never forget his horror when at last she arrived, after a month of travelling, attended only by a maid and one elderly male slave.
“My darling girl, don’t tell me this is the extent of your entourage…How could your mother have allowed it? You might have been robbed, or worse.”
“There’s no point in worrying about it now, Father. I’m here safe and well, aren’t I? And to see you again is worth any risk or discomfort.”
The journey showed the strength of the spirit that burned within that fragile frame, and soon her presence was brightening the entire household. Rooms shut up for the winter began to be cleaned and redecorated. Flowers appeared. The food improved. Even young Marcus tried to be civilised in her company. But more important than these domestic improvements was the revival in Cicero’s spirits. Tullia was a clever young woman: if she had been born a man, she would have made a good advocate. She read poetry and philosophy and—what was harder—understood them well enough to hold her own in a discussion with her father. She did not complain, but made light of her troubles. I believe her like on earth has never been seen, Cicero wrote to Atticus.
The more he came to admire her, the less he could forgive Terentia for the way she had treated her. Occasionally he would mutter to me, “What kind of mother allows her daughter to travel hundreds of miles without an escort, or stands by and allows her to be humiliated by tradesmen whose bills she cannot pay?” One night when we were having dinner he asked Tullia straight out what she thought could explain Terentia’s behaviour.
Tullia answered simply, “Money.”
“But that’s ridiculous. Money—it’s so demeaning.”
“She’s got it into her head that Caesar will need to raise a huge sum to pay for the costs of the war, and the only way he’ll get it is by confiscating the property of his opponents—you chief among them.”
“And for that reason she lets you live in penury? Where’s the logic in that?”
Tullia hesitated before replying. “Father, the last thing I want to do is to add to your anxieties. That’s why until this moment I’ve said nothing. But now that you seem stronger, I think you ought to know why I wanted to come, and why Mother wanted to stop me. She and Philotimus have been plundering your estate for months—perhaps years. Not just the rent from your properties, but your houses themselves. You’d barely recognise some of them any more—they’ve been almost entirely stripped.”
Cicero’s first reaction was disbelief. “It can’t be true. Why? How could she do such a thing?”
“I can only tell you what she said to me: ‘He may sink into ruin because of his own folly but I shan’t let him take me with him.’ ” Tullia paused and added quietly, “If you want the truth, I believe she’s been taking back her dowry.”
And now Cicero began to grasp the situation. “You mean she’s divorcing me?”
“I don’t think she’s fully decided yet. But I believe she’s taking precautions in case it comes to that and you no longer have the means of repaying her yourself.” She leaned across the table and grasped his hand. “Try not to be too angry with her, Father. Money is her only means of independence. She still has very strong feelings for you, I know it.”
Cicero, unable to control his emotions, left the table and went out into the garden.
—
Of all the disasters and betrayals that had struck him over recent years, this was the worst. It completed the collapse of his fortunes. He was numbed by it. What made it harder was that Tullia begged him to say nothing about it until such time as he could confront Terentia face to face, otherwise her mother would know it was she who was his informant. The notion of a meeting seemed a remote prospect. And then, out of the blue, just as the heat of the summer was starting to become uncomfortable, a letter arrived from Caesar.
Caesar Dictator to Cicero Imperator.
I have received various messages from your brother complaining of dishonesty on your part towards me and insisting that but for your influence he would never have taken up arms against me. I have sent these letters to Balbus to pass on to you. You may do with them as you wish. I have pardoned him, and his son. They may live where they please. But I have no desire to renew relations with him. His behaviour towards you confirms a certain low opinion I had begun to form of him in Gaul.
I am travelling ahead of my army and will return to Italy earlier than expected next month, landing at Tarentum, when I hope it will be possible for us to meet to settle matters regarding your own future once and for all.
Tullia was greatly excited when she read this: she called it “a handsome letter.” But Cicero was secretly thrown into confusion. He had hoped he would be allowed to make his way back quietly to Rome, without fuss. He viewed the prospect of actually meeting Caesar with dread. The Dictator would doubtless be friendly enough, even if the gang around him were rough and insolent. However, no amount of politeness could disguise the basic truth: that he would be begging for his life from a conqueror who had usurped the constitution. Meanwhile fresh reports were coming in almost every day from Africa, where Cato was raising a huge new army to continue to uphold the republican cause.
He put on a cheerful face for Tullia’s sake, only to collapse into agonies of conscience once she had gone to bed. “You know that I have always tried to steer the right course by asking myself how history would judge my actions. Well, in this instance I can be certain of the verdict. History will say that Cicero wasn’t with Cato and the good cause because in the end Cicero was a coward. Oh, I have made such a mess of it all, Tiro! I actually believe Terentia is quite right to salvage what she can from the wreckage and divorce me.”
Soon afterwards
Vatinius brought the news that Caesar had landed at Tarentum and wished to see Cicero the day after tomorrow.
Cicero said, “Where exactly are we to go?”
“He is staying in Pompey’s old villa by the sea. Do you know it?”
Cicero nodded. No doubt he was recalling his last visit, when he and Pompey had skimmed stones across the waves. “I know it.”
Vatinius insisted on providing a military escort, even though Cicero said that he would prefer to travel without ostentation: “No, I’m afraid that’s out of the question: the countryside is too dangerous. I hope we will meet again soon in happier circumstances. Good luck with Caesar. You will find him gracious, I’m sure.”
Afterwards, as I was showing him out, Vatinius said, “He doesn’t seem very happy.”
“He feels his humiliation keenly. The fact that he will have to bow the knee in his old chief’s former home will only add to his discomfort.”
“I might let Caesar know that.”
We set off the next morning—ten cavalrymen in the vanguard, followed by the six lictors; Cicero, Tullia and me in a carriage; Marcus on horseback; a baggage train of pack mules and servants; and finally another ten cavalry bringing up the rear. The Calabrian plain was flat and dusty. We saw almost no one apart from the occasional shepherd or olive farmer, and I realised that of course our escort wasn’t for our protection at all, but to make sure Cicero didn’t escape. We stayed overnight at a house reserved for us in Uria and continued the following day until around the middle of the afternoon, when we were only two or three miles from Tarentum, and then we saw a long column of horsemen in the distance, coming towards us.
In the rising heat and dust they seemed mere watery apparitions. It wasn’t until they were only a few hundred paces away that I recognised by the red crests on their helmets and the standards in their midst that they were soldiers. Our column halted, and the officer in charge dismounted and hurried back to tell Cicero that the oncoming cavalry was carrying Caesar’s personal standard. They were his praetorian guard and the Dictator was with them.
Cicero said, “Dear gods, is he planning to have me done in by the roadside, do you suppose?” Then, seeing Tullia’s horrified expression, he added, “That was a joke, child. If he’d wanted me dead it would have happened long ago. Well, let’s get it over with. You’d better come, Tiro. It will make a scene in your book.”
He clambered out of the carriage and called to Marcus to join us.
Caesar’s column had drawn up about a hundred paces away and deployed across the road as if for battle. It was huge: there must have been four or five hundred men. We walked towards them. Cicero was between Marcus and me. At first I couldn’t make out which of them was Caesar. But then a tall man swung himself out of his saddle, took off his helmet and gave it to an aide, and began to advance towards us, stroking his thin hair flat across his head.
How unreal it felt to watch the approach of this titan who had so dominated everyone’s thoughts for so many years—who had conquered countries and upended lives and sent thousands of soldiers marching hither and thither and had smashed the ancient republic to fragments as if it were nothing more substantial than a chipped antique vase that had gone out of fashion—to watch him, and to find him, in the end…just an ordinary breathing mortal! He walked in short strides with great rapidity—there was something curiously birdlike about him, I always thought: that narrow avian skull, those glittering watchful dark eyes. He stopped just in front of us. We stopped too. I was close enough to see the red indentations that his helmet had made in his surprisingly soft pale skin.
He looked Cicero up and down and said in his rasping voice, “Entirely unscathed, I am glad to see—exactly as I would have expected! I have a bone to pick with you,” he said, jabbing a finger at me, and for a moment I felt my insides turn to liquid. “You assured me ten years ago that your master was at death’s door. I told you then he would outlive me.”
Cicero said, “I’m glad to hear of your prediction, Caesar, if only because you are the one man in a position to make sure it comes true.”
Caesar threw back his head and laughed. “Ah yes, I’ve missed you! Now look here—do you see how I’ve come out of the town to meet you, to show you my respect? Let’s walk in the direction you’re headed and talk a little.”
And so they strolled on together for perhaps half a mile towards Tarentum, Caesar’s troops parting to allow them through. A few bodyguards walked behind them, one leading Caesar’s horse. Marcus and I followed. I could not hear what was said, but observed that Caesar occasionally took Cicero’s arm while gesturing with his other hand. Afterwards Cicero said that their conversation was friendly enough, and he roughly summarised it for me as follows:
CAESAR: “So what is it you would like to do?”
CICERO: “To return to Rome, if you’ll permit it.”
CAESAR: “And can you promise you will cause me no trouble?”
CICERO: “I swear it.”
CAESAR: “What will you do there? I’m not sure I want you making speeches in the Senate, and the law courts are all closed.”
CICERO: “Oh, I’m finished in politics, I know that. I shall retire from public life.”
CAESAR: “And do what?”
CICERO: “I thought I might write philosophy.”
CAESAR: “Excellent. I approve of statesmen who write philosophy. It means they have given up all hope of power. You may go to Rome. Will you teach the subject as well as write it? If so, I might send you a couple of my more promising men for instruction.”
CICERO: “Aren’t you worried I might corrupt them?”
CAESAR: “Nothing worries me when it comes to you. Do you have any other favours to ask?”
CICERO: “Well, I would like to be relieved of these lictors.”
CAESAR: “It’s done.”
CICERO: “Doesn’t it require a vote of the Senate?”
CAESAR: “I am the vote of the Senate.”
CICERO: “Ah! So I take it you have no intention of restoring the republic…?”
CAESAR: “One cannot rebuild using rotten timber.”
CICERO: “Tell me—did you always aim at this outcome: a dictatorship?”
CAESAR: “Never! I sought only the respect due to my rank and achievements. For the rest, one merely adapts to circumstances as they arise.”
CICERO: “I wonder sometimes, if I had come out to Gaul as your legate—as you were kind enough once to suggest—whether all of this might have been averted.”
CAESAR: “That, my dear Cicero, we shall never know.”
“He was perfectly amiable,” recalled Cicero. “He allowed no glimpse of those monstrous depths. I saw only the calm and glittering surface.”
At the end of their talk, Caesar shook Cicero’s hand. Then he mounted his horse and galloped away in the direction of Pompey’s villa. His action took his praetorian guard by surprise. They set off quickly after him, and the rest of us, Cicero included, had to scramble into the ditch to avoid being trampled.
Their hooves threw up the most tremendous cloud of dust. We choked and coughed, and when they had thundered past, we climbed back up on to the road to clean ourselves off. For a while we stood watching until Caesar and his followers had dissolved into the haze of heat, and then we began our journey back to Rome.
Part Two
Redux
47 BC–43 BC
Defendi rem publicam adulescens; non deseram senex.
I defended the republic in my youth; I will not desert it in old age.
—Cicero, Second Philippic, 44 BC
This time no crowds turned out to cheer Cicero on his way home. With so many men away at war, the fields we passed looked untended, the towns dilapidated and half empty. People stared at us sullenly; either that or they turned away.
Venusia was our first stop. From there Cicero dictated a chilly message to Terentia:
I think I shall go to Tusculum. Kindly see that everything is ready. I may have a number of peo
ple with me and shall probably make a fairly long stay there. If there is no tub in the bathroom, get one put in; likewise whatever else is necessary for health and subsistence. Goodbye.
There was no term of endearment, no expression of eager anticipation, not even an invitation to her to meet him. I knew then he had made up his mind to divorce her, whatever she might have decided.
We broke our journey for two nights at Cumae. The villa was shuttered; most of the slaves had been sold. Cicero moved through the stuffy, unventilated rooms and tried to remember what items were missing—a citrus-wood table from the dining room, a bust of Minerva that had been in the tablinum, an ivory stool from his library. He stood in Terentia’s bedroom and contemplated the bare shelves and alcoves. It was to be the same story in Formiae; she had taken all her personal belongings—clothes, combs, perfumes, fans, parasols—and he said, “I feel like a ghost revisiting the scenes of my life.”
At Tusculum she was waiting for us. We knew she was inside because one of her maids was looking out for us by the gate.
I recoiled at the prospect of another terrible scene, like the one between Cicero and his brother. In the event, she was gentler than I had ever known her. I suppose it was the effect of seeing her son again after such a long and anxious separation—he was certainly the person she ran to first and she clutched him to her tightly; it was the only time in thirty years I saw her cry. Next she embraced Tullia and finally she turned to her husband. Cicero told me later that he felt all his bitterness drain away the moment she came towards him, for he saw that she had aged. Her face was creased with worry; her hair flecked grey; her once proud back was slightly stooped. “Only at that moment did I realise how much she must have suffered, living in Caesar’s Rome and being married to me. I cannot say I felt love for her any more, but I did feel great pity and affection and sadness, and I resolved there and then to make no mention of money or property—it was all done with, as far as I was concerned.” They clung to one another like strangers who had survived a shipwreck, then parted, and as far as I know they never embraced again for the remainder of their lives.