Cicero stayed just long enough to gauge the reactions to his handiwork, then hurried round to the back of the rostra to report. The Piceneans were there, and the usual crush of hangers-on. Pompey’s attendants had brought a closed litter of blue and gold brocade to ferry him to the Capena Gate, and the general was preparing to clamber into it. He was like many men I have seen immediately after they have delivered a big speech, in the same breath both arrogant with exhilaration and anxious for reassurance. ‘That went extremely well,’ he said. ‘Did you think it was all right?’
‘Superb,’ said Cicero. ‘Crassus’s expression is beyond description.’
‘Did you like the line about my heart remaining among the hearths and temples of Rome for ever?’
‘It was the consummate touch.’
Pompey grunted, highly pleased, and settled himself among the cushions of his litter. He let the curtain drop, then quickly pulled it aside again. ‘You are sure this is going to work?’
‘Our opponents are in disarray. That is a start.’
The curtain fell, then parted once more.
‘How long before the bill is voted on?’
‘Fifteen days.’
‘Keep me informed. Daily at the least.’
Cicero stepped aside as the canopied chair was hoisted on to the shoulders of its bearers. They must have been strong young fellows, for Pompey was a great weight, yet they set off at the double, past the senate house and out of the forum – the heavenly body of Pompey the Great trailing his comet’s tail of clients and admirers. ‘Did I like the line about hearths and temples?’ repeated Cicero under his breath as he watched him go. ‘Well, naturally I did, you great booby – I wrote it!’ I guess it must have been hard for him to devote so much energy to a chief he did not admire and a cause he believed to be fundamentally specious. But the journey to the top in politics often confines a man with some uncongenial fellow passengers and shows him strange scenery, and he knew there was no turning back now.
XII
FOR THE NEXT two weeks there was only one topic in Rome, and that was the pirates. Gabinius and Cornelius, in the phrase of the time, ‘lived on the rostra’ – that is, every day they kept the issue of the pirate menace before the people by issuing fresh proclamations and summoning more witnesses. Horror stories were their speciality. For example, it was put about that if one of the pirates’ prisoners announced that he was a Roman citizen, his captors would pretend to be frightened, and beg forgiveness. They would even fetch a toga for him to wear, and shoes for his feet, and bow whenever he passed, and this game would go on for a long time, until at last, when they were far out at sea, they would let down a ladder and tell him he was free to go. If their victim refused to walk, he would be flung overboard. Such tales enraged the audience in the forum, who were accustomed to the magical incantation ‘I am a Roman citizen’ guaranteeing deference throughout the world.
Cicero himself did not speak from the rostra. Oddly enough, he had never yet done so, having decided early on to hold back until a moment in his career when he could make the maximum impact. He was naturally tempted to make this the issue on which he broke his silence, for it was a popular stick with which to beat the aristocrats. But in the end he decided against it, reasoning that the measure already had such overwhelming backing in the streets, he would be better employed behind the scenes, plotting strategy and trying to tempt over waverers in the senate. For this reason, his crucial importance has been frequently neglected. Instead of the fiery public orator he played the moderate for a change, working his way up and down the senaculum, listening to the complaints of the pedarii, promising to relay messages of commiseration and entreaty to Pompey, and dangling – very occasionally – half-offers of preferment to men of influence. Each day a messenger came to the house from Pompey’s estate in the Alban Hills bearing a dispatch containing some fresh moan or enquiry or instruction (‘Our new Cincinnatus does not seem to be spending much time ploughing,’ observed Cicero with a wry smile), and each day the senator would dictate to me a soothing reply, often giving the names of men it might be useful for Pompey to summon out for interview. This was a delicate task, since it was important to maintain the pretence that Pompey was taking no further part in politics. But a combination of greed, flattery, ambition, realisation that some kind of special command was inevitable, and fear that it might go to Crassus eventually brought half a dozen key senators into Pompey’s camp, the most significant of whom was Lucius Manlius Torquatus, who had only just finished serving as praetor and was certain to run for the consulship the following year.
Crassus remained, as always, the greatest threat to Cicero’s schemes, and naturally he was not idle during this time either. He, too, went around making promises of lucrative commissions, and winning over adherents. For connoisseurs of politics it was fascinating to observe the perennial rivals, Crassus and Pompey, so evenly poised. Each had two tame tribunes; each could therefore veto the bill; and each had a list of secret supporters in the senate. Crassus’s advantage over Pompey was the support of most of the aristocrats, who feared Pompey more than any other man in the republic; Pompey’s advantage over Crassus was the popularity he enjoyed among the masses on the streets. ‘They are like two scorpions, circling each other,’ said Cicero, leaning back in his chair one morning, after he had dictated his latest dispatch to Pompey. ‘Neither can win outright, yet each can kill the other.’
‘Then how will victory ever be achieved?’
He looked at me, then suddenly lunged forward and slammed his palm down on his desk with a speed that made me jump. ‘By the one which strikes the other by surprise.’
At the time he made that remark, there were only four days left before the lex Gabinia was due to be voted on by the people. He still had not thought of a means of circumventing Crassus’s veto. He was wearied and discouraged, and once again began to talk of our retiring to Athens and studying philosophy. That day passed, and the next, and the next, and still no solution presented itself. On the final day before the vote, I rose as usual at dawn and opened the door to Cicero’s clients. Now that he was known to be so close to Pompey, these morning levees had doubled in size compared to the old days, and the house was crowded with petitioners and well-wishers at all hours, much to Terentia’s annoyance. Some of them had famous names: for example, on this particular morning, Antonius Hybrida, who was the second son of the great orator and consul Marcus Antonius, and who had just finished a term as tribune; he was a fool and a drunk, but protocol dictated he would have to be seen first. Outside it was grey and raining and the callers had brought in with them a wet-dog smell of moist stale clothes and damp hair. The black and white mosaic floor was streaked with tracks of mud and I was just contemplating summoning one of the household slaves to mop up when the door opened again and who should step in but Marcus Licinius Crassus himself. I was so startled, I briefly forgot to be alarmed, and gave him as natural a greeting as if he had been a nobody, come to request a letter of introduction.
‘And a very good morning to you, Tiro,’ he returned. He had only met me once, yet he still remembered my name, which frightened me. ‘Might it be possible to have a word with your master?’ Crassus was not alone but had brought with him Quintus Arrius, a senator who followed him around like a shadow, and whose ridiculously affected speech – always adding an aspirate to a vowel: ‘Harrius’ was how he pronounced his name – was to be so memorably parodied by that cruellest of poets, Catullus. I hurried through into Cicero’s study, where he was doing his usual trick of dictating a letter to Sositheus while signing documents as quickly as Laurea could produce them.
‘You will never guess who is here!’ I cried.
‘Crassus,’ he replied, without looking up.
I was immediately deflated. ‘You are not surprised?’
‘No,’ said Cicero, signing another letter. ‘He has come to make a magnanimous offer, which is not really magnanimous at all, but which will show him in a better light when our refusal t
o agree to it becomes public. He has every reason to compromise, while we have none. Still, you had better show him in before he bribes all my clients away from me. And stay in the room and take a note, in case he tries to put words into my mouth.’
So I went out to fetch Crassus – who was indeed glad-handing his way around Cicero’s tablinum, to the awed amazement of all concerned – and showed him into the study. The junior secretaries left, and there were just the four of us – Crassus, Arrius and Cicero all seated, and myself standing in the corner and taking notes.
‘You have a very nice house,’ said Crassus, in his friendly way. ‘Small but charming. You must tell me if you think of selling.’
‘If it ever catches fire,’ responded Cicero, ‘you will be the first to know.’
‘Very droll,’ said Crassus, clapping his hands and laughing with great good humour. ‘But I am perfectly serious. An important man such as yourself should have a larger property, in a better neighbourhood. The Palatine, of course. I can arrange it. No, please,’ he added, as Cicero shook his head, ‘do not dismiss my offer. We have had our differences, and I should like to make a gesture of reconciliation.’
‘Well, that is handsome of you,’ said Cicero, ‘but alas, I fear the interests of a certain gentleman still stand between us.’
‘They need not. I have watched your career with admiration, Cicero. You deserve the place you have won in Rome. It is my view that you should achieve the praetorship in the summer, and the consulship itself two years after that. There – I have said it. You may have my support. Now what do you say in reply?’
This was indeed a stunning offer, and at that moment I grasped an important point about clever men of business – that it is not consistent meanness which makes them rich (as many vulgarly assume), but rather the capacity, when necessary, to be unexpectedly, even extravagantly generous. Cicero was entirely caught off balance. He was effectively being offered the consulship, his life’s dream, on a platter – an ambition he had never even dared voice in the presence of Pompey, for fear of arousing the great man’s jealousy.
‘You overwhelm me, Crassus,’ he said, and his voice was so thick with emotion he had to cough to clear it before he could continue. ‘But fate has once again cast us on different sides.’
‘Not necessarily. On the day before the people vote, surely the time has arrived for a compromise? I accept that this supreme command is Pompey’s conception. Let us share it.’
‘A shared supreme command is an oxymoron.’
‘We shared the consulship.’
‘Yes, but the consulship is a joint office, based on the principle that political power should always be shared. Running a war is entirely different, as you know far better than I. In warfare, any hint of division at the top is fatal.’
‘This command is so huge, there is easily room enough for two,’ said Crassus airily. ‘Let Pompey take the east, and I the west. Or Pompey the sea and I the land. Or vice versa. I do not mind. The point is that between us we can rule the world, with you as the bridge that links us.’
I am sure that Cicero had expected Crassus to come in threatening and aggressive, tactics which a career in the law courts had long since taught him how to handle. But this unexpectedly generous approach had him reeling, not least because what Crassus was suggesting was both sensible and patriotic. It would also be the ideal solution for Cicero, enabling him to win the friendship of all sides. ‘I shall certainly put your offer to him,’ promised Cicero. ‘He shall have it in his hands before the day is out.’
‘That is no use to me!’ scoffed Crassus. ‘If it were a matter of merely putting a proposal, I could have sent Arrius here out to the Alban Hills with a letter, could I not, Arrius?’
‘Hindeed you could.’
‘No, Cicero, I need you actually to bring this about.’ He leaned in close and moistened his lips; there was something almost lecherous about the way Crassus talked of power. ‘I shall be frank with you. I have set my heart upon resuming a military career. I have all the wealth a man could want, but that can only be a means and not an end in itself. Can you tell me what nation ever erected a statue to a man because he was rich? Which of the earth’s many peoples mingles the name of some long-dead millionaire in its prayers because of the number of houses he once possessed? The only lasting glory is on the page – and I am no poet! – or on the battlefield. So you see, you really must deliver the agreement of Pompey for our bargain to stick.’
‘He is not a mule to be driven to market,’ objected Cicero, whom I could see was starting to recoil again from the crudeness of his old enemy. ‘You know what he is like.’
‘I do. Too well! But you are the most persuasive man in the world. You got him to leave Rome – do not deny it! Now surely you can convince him to come back?’
‘His position is that he will come back as the sole supreme commander, or he will not come back at all.’
‘Then Rome will never see him again,’ snapped Crassus, whose friendliness was beginning to peel away like a thin layer of cheap paint on one of his less salubrious properties. ‘You know perfectly well what is going to happen tomorrow. It will unfold as predictably as a farce at the theatre. Gabinius will propose your law and Trebellius, on my behalf, will veto it. Then Roscius, also on my instructions, will propose an amendment, setting up a joint command, and dare any tribune to veto that. If Pompey refuses to serve, he will look like a greedy child, willing to spoil the cake rather than share it.’
‘I disagree. The people love him.’
‘The people loved Tiberius Gracchus, but it did him no good in the end. That was a horrible fate for a patriotic Roman, which you might do well to remember.’ Crassus stood. ‘Look to your own interests, Cicero. Surely you can see that Pompey is leading you to political oblivion? No man ever became consul with the aristocracy united against him.’ Cicero also rose and warily took Crassus’s proferred hand. The older man grasped it hard and pulled him close. ‘On two occasions,’ he said in a very soft voice, ‘I have offered the hand of friendship to you, Marcus Tullius Cicero. There will not be a third.’
With that, he strode out of the house, and at such a pace I could not get in front of him to show him out, or even open the door. I returned to the study to find Cicero standing exactly where I had left him, frowning at his hand. ‘It is like touching the skin of a snake,’ he said. ‘Tell me – did I mishear him, or is he suggesting that Pompey and I might suffer the same fate as Tiberius Gracchus?’
‘Yes: “a horrible fate for a patriotic Roman”,’ I read from my notes. ‘What was the fate of Tiberius Gracchus?’
‘Cornered like a rat in a temple and murdered by the nobles, while he was still tribune, and therefore supposedly inviolable. That must have been sixty years ago, at least. Tiberius Gracchus!’ He clenched his hand into a fist. ‘You know, for a moment, Tiro, he almost had me believing him. But I swear to you, I would sooner never be consul than feel that I had only achieved it because of Crassus.’
‘I believe you, Senator. Pompey is worth ten of him.’
‘A hundred, more like – for all his absurdities.’
I busied myself with a few things, straightening the desk and collecting the morning’s list of callers from the tablinum, while Cicero remained motionless in the study. When I returned again, a curious expression had come over his face. I gave him the list and reminded him that he still had a houseful of clients to receive, including a senator. Absent-mindedly he selected a couple of names, among them Hybrida’s, but then he suddenly said, ‘Leave things here to Sositheus. I have a different task for you to perform. Go to the National Archive and consult the Annals for the consular year of Mucius Scaevola and Calpurnius Piso Frugi. Copy down everything relating to the tribuneship of Tiberius Gracchus and his agrarian bill. Tell nobody what you are doing. If anyone asks you, make something up. Well?’ He smiled for the first time in a week and made a shooing gesture, flicking his fingers at me. ‘Go on, man. Go!’
After so many years
in his service I had become used to these bewildering and peremptory commands, and once I had wrapped myself up against the cold and wet I set off down the hill. Never had I known the city so grim and hard pressed – in the depths of winter, under a dark sky, freezing, short of food, with beggars on every corner, and even the occasional corpse in the gutter of some poor wretch who had died in the night. I moved quickly through the dreary streets, across the forum and up the steps to the Archive. This was the same building in which I had discovered the meagre official records of Gaius Verres and I had been back on many errands since, especially when Cicero was aedile, so my face was familiar to the clerks. They gave me the volume I needed without asking any questions. I took it over to a reading desk beside the window and unrolled it with my mittened fingers. The morning light was weak, it was very draughty, and I was not at all sure what I was looking for. The Annals, at least in those days before Caesar got his hands on them, gave a very straight and full account of what had happened in each year: the names of the magistrates, the laws passed, the wars fought, the famines endured, the eclipses and other natural phenomena observed. They were drawn from the official register that was written up each year by the pontifex maximus, and posted on the white board outside the headquarters of the college of priests.