Lustrum (8 page)

'Why did you not consult any of us before giving away your province?' he demanded.

'What does it matter? The effect is what counts. You were sitting opposite them. Whom did you think looked sicker – Caesar or Crassus?'

But Quintus was not to be deflected. 'When was this decided?'

'To be honest, I've had it in mind ever since I drew the lot for Macedonia.'

At this, Quintus threw up his hands in exasperation. 'Do you mean to say that when we were talking to you last night, you'd already made up your mind?'

'More or less.'

'But why didn't you tell us?'

'First, because I knew you'd disagree. Second, because I thought there was still just a chance Caesar might produce a bill I could support. And third, because what I choose to do with my province is my business.'

'No, it's not just
your
business, Marcus, it's
our
business. How are we to pay off our debts without the income from Macedonia?'

'You mean, how are
you
to finance
your
campaign for the praetorship this summer?'

'That's unfair!'

Cicero seized Quintus's hand. 'Brother, listen to me. You will have your praetorship. And you won't acquire it through bribery, but through the good name of the Cicero family, which will make the triumph all the sweeter. You must see I had to separate Hybrida from Caesar and the tribunes? My only hope of piloting the republic through this storm is to keep the senate united. I can't have my colleague plotting behind my back. Macedonia had to go.' He appealed to Atticus and Terentia. 'Who wants to govern a province, in any case? You know I couldn't bear to leave you all behind in Rome.'

'And what's to stop Hybrida simply taking Macedonia off you and supporting the prosecution of Rabirius?' persisted Quintus.

'Why would he bother? His only reason for joining their schemes was money. Now he can pay off his debts without them. Besides, nothing's signed and sealed – I can always change my
mind. And meanwhile by this noble gesture I show the people I'm a man of principle who puts the welfare of the republic ahead of his own personal gain.'

Quintus looked at Atticus. Atticus shrugged. 'The logic is sound,' he said.

'And what do you think, Terentia?' asked Quintus.

Cicero's wife had kept very quiet, which was unlike her. Even now she did not say anything, but continued to stare at her husband, who stared back at her impassively. Slowly she reached up to her hair, and from those tight dark curls she plucked the diadem that was fastened there. Still without taking her eyes from Cicero's face she removed the necklace from her throat, unclipped the emerald brooch from her breast, and slid the gold bracelets from each of her wrists. Finally, grimacing with the effort, she pulled the rings off her fingers. When she had finished, she cupped all this newly purchased jewellery in her two hands, and let it fall. The glittering gems and precious metal scattered noisily across the mosaic floor. Then she turned and walked out of the room.

We had to leave Rome at first light the next morning, part of that great exodus of magistrates, their families and retainers required to attend the Latin Festival on the Alban Mount. Terentia accompanied her husband, and the atmosphere between them inside their carriage was as chilly as the January mountain air outside. The consul kept me busy, dictating first a long dispatch to Pompey, describing political affairs in Rome, and then a series of shorter letters to each of the provincial governors, while Terentia kept her eyes averted from him and pretended to sleep. The children travelled with their nurse in another carriage. Behind us stretched a great convoy of vehicles conveying the elected rulers of Rome – first Hybrida and then the praetors: Celer, Cosconius, Pompeius Rufus, Pomptinus, Roscius, Sulpicius, Valerius Flaccus. Only Lentulus Sura, as urban praetor, stayed behind in the city to guard its welfare. 'The place will burn to the ground,' observed Cicero, 'with that idiot in charge.'

We reached Cicero's house at Tusculum early in the afternoon, but there was little time to rest, as he had to leave almost at once to judge the local athletes. The highlight of the Latin Games was traditionally the swinging competition, with so many points awarded for height, so many for style, and so many for strength. Cicero had not a clue which competitor was the best,
and so ended up announcing that all were equally worthy victors and that he would award a prize to everyone, paid for out of his own pocket. This gesture won warm applause from the assembled country folk. As he rejoined Terentia in the carriage, I heard her remark to him, 'Presumably Macedonia will pay?' He laughed, and that was the beginning of a thaw between them.

The main ceremony took place at sunset on the summit of the mountain, which was accessible only by a steep and twisting road. As the sun sank, it grew brutally cold. Snow lay ankle-deep on the rocky ground. Cicero walked at the head of the procession, surrounded by his lictors. Slaves carried torches. From all the branches of the trees and in the bushes the locals had hung small figures or faces made of wood or wool, a reminder of a time when human sacrifice had been practised and a young boy would be strung up to speed the end of winter. There was something indescribably melancholy about the whole scene – the bitter chill, the gathering twilight, and those sinister emblems rustling and turning in the wind. On the highest piece of ground the altar fire spat out orange sparks against the stars. An ox was sacrificed to Jupiter, and libations of milk from the nearby farms were also offered. 'Let the people refrain from strife and quarrelling,' proclaimed Cicero, and the traditional words seemed weighted with an extra meaning that evening.

By the time the ceremony was over, an immense full moon had risen like a blue sun and was casting an unhealthy light across the scene. It did at least have the merit of illuminating our path very clearly as we turned to descend, but then occurred two events that were to be talked about for weeks afterwards. First, the moon was suddenly and inexplicably blotted out, exactly as if it had been plunged into a black pool, and the procession, which had been relying on its light, was obliged to come to an
abrupt and undignified halt while more torches were lit. The interruption did not last long, but it is strange how being stranded on a mountain path in darkness can work on one's imagination, especially if the vegetation around one is sown with hanging effigies. Quite a few voices were raised in panic, not least when it was realised that all the other stars and constellations were still shimmering brightly. I raised my eyes to the heavens with the rest, and that was when we saw a shooting star – pointed at the tip like a flaming spear – spurt across the night sky to the west, exactly in the direction of Rome, where it faded and vanished. Loud exclamations of wonder were followed by more mutterings in the dark as to what all this portended.

Cicero said nothing, but waited patiently for the procession to resume. Later that night, after we had safely reached Tusculum, I asked him what he made of it all. 'Nothing,' he replied, warming his chilled bones at the fire. 'Why should I? The moon went behind a cloud and a star crossed the sky. What else is there to be said?'

The following morning a message arrived from Quintus, who was looking after Cicero's interests back in Rome. Cicero read the letter and then showed it to me. It reported that a great wooden cross had been erected on the Field of Mars, rising starkly over the snowy plain, and that the plebs were flocking out of the city to look at it. 'Labienus is going around openly saying that the cross is for Rabirius, and that the old man will be hanging from it by the end of the month. You should return as soon as possible.'

'I will say one thing for Caesar,' said Cicero. 'He doesn't waste much time. His court hasn't even heard any evidence yet, but he wants to keep up the pressure on me.' He stared into the fire. 'Is the messenger still here?'

'He is.'

'Send a note ahead to Quintus and tell him we'll be back by nightfall, and another to Hortensius. Say I appreciated his visit the other day. Tell him I have thought the matter over and I shall be delighted to appear beside him in defence of Gaius Rabirius.' He nodded to himself. 'If it's a fight Caesar wants, he shall have one.' When I reached the door he called me back. 'Also, send one of the slaves to find Hybrida, and ask him if he would care to travel back with me in my carriage to Rome, to settle our arrangement. I need to have something in writing before Caesar gets to him and persuades him to change his mind.'

Thus I found myself later that day seated opposite one consul and next to the other, trying to write down the terms of their agreement as we bounced along the Via Latina. An escort of lictors rode ahead of us. Hybrida brought out a small flask of wine from which he took regular nips, occasionally offering it with a shaky hand to Cicero, who declined politely. I had never seen Hybrida for an extended period at such close quarters before. His once-noble nose was red and squashed – broken in battle he always claimed, but everyone knew he had got it in a tavern brawl – his cheeks were purple and his breath smelt so strongly of drink I felt I should go dizzy from the fumes. Poor Macedonia, I thought, to have such a creature as its governor. Cicero proposed that they should simply swap provinces, which would save having to put the matter to a vote in the senate. ('As you want,' said Hybrida. 'You're the lawyer.') In return for receiving Macedonia, Hybrida undertook to oppose the populists' bill and to support the defence of Rabirius. He also agreed to pay Cicero one quarter of the revenue he derived as governor. Cicero, for his part, promised to do his best to ensure that Hybrida's term was extended to two or three years, and to act as his defence counsel in the event that he was afterwards prosecuted for
corruption. He hesitated over this last condition, as the chances of Hybrida being put on trial, given his character, were plainly high, but in the end he gave an undertaking and I wrote it down.

When the haggling was concluded, Hybrida produced his flask again, and this time Cicero consented to take a sip. I could tell by his expression that the wine was undiluted and not to his taste, but he pretended to find it pleasant, and then the two consuls settled back in their seats, seemingly satisfied at a job well done.

'I always thought,' said Hybrida, suppressing a burp, 'that you rigged that ballot for our provinces.'

'How could I have done that?'

'Oh, there are plenty of ways, as long as the consul's in on it. You can have the winning token hidden in your palm and substitute it for the one you draw. Or the consul can do it for you when he announces what you've got. So you really didn't do that?'

'No,' said Cicero, slightly affronted. 'Macedonia was mine by right.'

'Is that a fact?' Hybrida grunted and raised his flask. 'Well, we've fixed it now. Let's drink to fate.'

We had reached the plain, and the fields beyond the road stretched flat and bare. Hybrida started humming to himself.

'Tell me, Hybrida,' said Cicero after a while, 'did you lose a boy a few days ago?'

'A what?'

'A boy. About twelve years old.'

'Oh, him,' replied Hybrida, in an offhand way, as if he were in the regular habit of losing boys. 'You heard about that?'

'I didn't just hear about it, I saw what was done to him.' Cicero
was suddenly staring at Hybrida with great intensity. 'As a mark of our new friendship, will you tell me what happened?'

'I'm not sure I should do that.' Hybrida gave Cicero a crafty look. Drunkard he might have been, but he was not without cunning, even in his cups. 'You've said some hard things about me in the past. I've got to get used to trusting you.'

'If you mean by that remark, will anything you say privately go beyond the two of us, let me put your mind at ease. We are now bound together, Hybrida, whatever may have happened between us earlier. I shan't do anything to jeopardise our alliance, which is at least as precious to me as it is to you, even if you tell me you killed the boy yourself. But I feel I need to know.'

'Very prettily put.' Hybrida burped again and nodded to me. 'And the slave?'

'He is utterly trustworthy.'

'Then have another drink,' said Hybrida, once more holding out the flask, and when Cicero hesitated he shook it in his face. 'Go on. I can't abide a man who stays sober while others drink.' So Cicero swallowed his distaste and took another gulp of wine, while Hybrida described what had happened to the boy as cheerfully as if he were relating a tale from a hunting trip. 'He was a Smyrnan. Very musical. I forget his name. He used to sing to my guests at dinner. I lent him to Catilina for a party just after Saturnalia.' He took another swig. 'Catilina really hates you, doesn't he?'

'I expect so.'

'Me, I'm easier by nature. But Catilina? Oh no! He's a Sergius through and through. Can't bear the thought that he was beaten to the consulship by a common man, and a provincial to boot.' He pursed his lips and shook his head. 'After you won the election, I swear he lost his mind. Anyway, at this party he was pretty wild, and to cut a long tale short, he suggested we
should swear an oath, a sacred oath, which required a sacrifice appropriate to the undertaking. He had my boy summoned, and told him to start singing. And then he got behind him and' – Hybrida made a sweeping gesture with his fist – 'bang. That was it. Quick at least. The rest I didn't stay for.'

'Are you telling me Catilina killed the boy?'

'He split his skull.'

'Dear gods! A Roman senator! Who else was present?'

'Oh, you know – Longinus, Cethegus, Curius. The usual gang.'

'So four members of the senate – five including you?'

'You can leave me out of it. I was sickened, I can tell you. That lad cost me thousands.'

'And what kind of oath “appropriate” to such an abomination did he have you all swear?'

'Actually, it was to kill you,' said Hybrida cheerfully, and raised his flask. 'Your health.' Then he burst out laughing. He laughed so much, he spluttered the wine. It leaked from his battered nose and trickled down his stubbled chin and stained the front of his toga. He brushed at it ineffectively, and then gradually the motions ceased. His hand dropped, he slowly nodded forwards, and very soon after that he fell asleep.