The Dictator (30 page)

As soon as his depression had lifted sufficiently for him to contemplate the future, Cicero approved this plan—“I’d rather die in Italy than here”—and when there was a decent southeasterly wind we embarked. The voyage was good, and after four days at sea we saw on the horizon the great lighthouse at Brundisium. It was a blessed sight. Cicero had been away from the mother country for a year and a half, I for more than three years.

Fearful of his reception, Cicero remained in his cabin below decks while I went ashore with Marcus to find somewhere for us to stay. The best we could manage for that first night was a noisy inn near the waterfront, and we decided that the safest course would be for Cicero to come ashore at dusk wearing an ordinary toga belonging to Marcus rather than one of his own with the purple stripe of a senator. An additional complication was the presence, like the chorus in a tragedy, of his six lictors—for absurdly, although he was entirely powerless, he still technically possessed imperium as governor of Cilicia, and was reluctant even now to break the law by sending them away; nor would they leave him until they had been paid. So they too had to be disguised and their fasces wrapped in sacking and rooms hired for them.

Cicero found this procedure so humiliating that after a sleepless night he resolved the next day to announce his presence to whoever was the most senior representative of Caesar in the town and accept whatever fate was decreed for him. He had me search through his correspondence for Dolabella’s letter guaranteeing his safety—
Any concessions that you need from the commander-in-chief to safeguard your dignity you will obtain with the greatest ease from so kindly a man as Caesar
—and I made sure I had it with me when I went to the military headquarters.

The new commander of the region turned out to be Publius Vatinius, widely known as the ugliest man in Rome, and an old opponent of Cicero’s—indeed it was Vatinius, as tribune, who had first proposed the law awarding Caesar both the provinces of Gaul and an army for five years. He had fought with his old chief at the battle of Dyrrachium and returned to take control of the whole of southern Italy. But by a great stroke of good fortune Cicero had made up his quarrel with Vatinius at Caesar’s request several years before and had defended him in a prosecution for bribery. As soon as he learned of my arrival, I was shown straight into his presence and he greeted me most affably.

Dear gods, he
was
ugly! His eyes were crossed, and his face and neck were covered in scrofulous growths the colour of birthmarks. But what did his looks matter? He barely even glanced at Dolabella’s letter before assuring me that it was an honour to welcome Cicero back to Italy, that he would protect his dignity as he was sure Caesar would wish, and that he would arrange for suitable accommodation to be provided while he awaited instructions from Rome.

The latter phrase sounded ominous. “May I ask who will issue these instructions?”

“Well indeed—that is a good question. We are still sorting out our administration. Caesar has been appointed dictator for a year by the Senate—
our
Senate, that is,” he added with a wink, “but he is still away chasing your former commander-in-chief, and so in his absence, power is vested in the Master of Horse.”

“And who is that?”

“Mark Antony.”

My spirits sank further.

That same day Vatinius sent a platoon of legionaries to escort us with our baggage to a house in a quiet district of the town. Cicero was carried all the way in a closed litter so that his presence remained a secret.

It was a small villa, old, with thick walls and tiny windows. A sentry was posted outside. To begin with, Cicero was simply relieved to be back in Italy. Only gradually did he realise that he was in fact under house arrest. It was not so much that he was physically prevented from leaving the villa—he did not venture beyond the gate, so we never discovered what orders the guards had been given. Rather, Vatinius implied, when he came to check how Cicero was settling in, it would be dangerous for him to leave, and, worse, disrespectful towards Caesar’s hospitality. For the first time we tasted life under a dictatorship: there were no freedoms any more; no magistrates, no courts; one existed at the whim of the ruler.

Cicero wrote to Mark Antony asking permission to return to Rome. But he did so without much hope. Although he and Antony had always been polite to one another, there was a long-standing enmity between them, born of the fact that Antony’s stepfather, P. Lentulus Sura, had been one of the five co-conspirators of Catilina that Cicero had had executed. Therefore it was no surprise when Antony refused Cicero’s request. Cicero’s fate, he said, was a matter for Caesar, and until Caesar made a ruling, he must stay in Brundisium.

I would say that the months that followed were the worst of Cicero’s life—worse even than his first exile in Thessalonica. At least then there had still been a republic to fight for, there was honour in his struggle, and his family was united; now these supports had gone, and all was death, dishonour and discord. And so much death! So many old friends gone! One could almost smell it in the air. We had only been in Brundisium a few days when we were visited by C. Matius Calvena, a wealthy member of the equestrian order and a close associate of Caesar, who told us that both Milo and Caelius Rufus had died trying to stir up trouble together in Campania—Milo, at the head of a ragamuffin army of his old gladiators, had been killed in battle by one of Caesar’s lieutenants; Rufus had been put to death on the spot by some Spanish and Gallic horsemen he had been trying to bribe. The death of Rufus at the age of only thirty-four was a particular blow to Cicero, and he wept when he heard of it—which was more than he did when he learned of the fate of Pompey.

Vatinius brought us the news of that himself, his hideous features especially composed for the occasion into a simulacrum of grief.

Cicero said, “Is there any doubt?”

“None whatever—I have a dispatch here from Caesar: he has seen his severed head.”

Cicero blanched and sat down, and I pictured that massive head with its thick crest of hair and that bull neck: it must have taken some effort to hack it off, I thought, and been quite a sight for Caesar to behold.

“Caesar wept when he was shown it,” Vatinius added, as if he had seen into my mind.

Cicero said, “When did this happen?”

“Two months ago.”

Vatinius read aloud from Caesar’s account. It transpired that Pompey had done exactly as Quintus had predicted: he had fled from Pharsalus to Lesbos to seek solace with Cornelia; his youngest son, Sextus, was also with her. Together they had embarked in a trireme and sailed to Egypt, in the hope of persuading the Pharaoh to join his cause. He had anchored off the coast at Pelusium and sent word of his arrival. But the Egyptians had heard of the disaster at Pharsalus and preferred to side with the winner. Rather than merely send Pompey away, they saw an opportunity to gain credit with Caesar by taking care of his enemy for him. Pompey was invited ashore for talks. A tender was sent to fetch him, containing Achillas, general of the Egyptian army, and several senior Roman officers who had served under Pompey and now commanded the Roman forces protecting the Pharaoh.

Despite the entreaties of his wife and son, Pompey had boarded the tender. The assassins had waited until he was stepping ashore and then one of them, the military tribune Lucius Septimius, had run him through from behind with his sword. Achillas then drew his dagger and stabbed him, as did a second Roman officer, Salvius.

“Caesar wishes it to be known that Pompey met his death bravely. According to witnesses, he drew his toga over his face with both hands and fell down upon the sand. He did not beg or plead but only groaned a little as they finished him off. The cries of Cornelia, who watched the murder, could be heard from the shore.

“Caesar was only three days behind Pompey. When he arrived in Alexandria he was shown the head and Pompey’s signet ring on which is engraved a lion holding a sword in its paws; he encloses it with this letter as proof of the story. The body having already been burnt where it fell, Caesar has given orders for the ashes to be sent to Pompey’s widow.”

Vatinius rolled up the letter and handed it to his aide.

“My condolences,” he said, and saluted. “He was a fine soldier.”

“But not fine enough,” said Cicero, after Vatinius had gone.

Later he wrote to Atticus:

As to Pompey’s end I never had any doubt, for all rulers and peoples had become so thoroughly persuaded of the hopelessness of his case that wherever he went I expected this to happen. I cannot but grieve for his fate. I knew him for a man of good character, clean life and serious principle.

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?”