The Dictator (38 page)

I sensed that Cicero was in mortal danger. Even though he’d known nothing in advance of the conspiracy, Brutus had called out his name; everyone had heard it. He was an obvious target for vengeance. Caesar’s loyalists might even assume he was the assassins’ leader. Blood would demand blood.

I said, “We have to get you away from here.”

To my relief, he nodded, still too stunned to argue. Our porters had fled, abandoning their litters. We had to hurry out of the portico on foot. Meanwhile the games continued oblivious. From Pompey’s theatre welled the roar of applause as the gladiators fought. One would never have guessed what had just occurred, and the more distance we put between ourselves and the portico, the more normal things seemed, so that by the time we reached the Carmenta Gate and entered the city it appeared to be a perfectly ordinary holiday and the assassination felt as if it had been a lurid dream.

Nevertheless, invisible to us, along the back streets and through the markets, conveyed on running feet and in panicky whispers, the news was travelling faster than we could—so that somehow, by the time we reached the house on the Palatine, it had overtaken us, and Cicero’s brother Quintus and Atticus were already arriving from separate directions with garbled versions of what had happened. They did not know much. There had been an attack in the Senate, was all they had heard: Caesar was hurt.

“Caesar is dead,” said Cicero, and described what we had just seen. It seemed even more fantastical in recollection than it had at the time. Both men were at first disbelieving and then overjoyed that the Dictator was slain. Atticus, normally so urbane, even performed a little skipping dance.

Quintus said, “And you truly had no idea this was coming?”

“None,” replied Cicero. “They must have kept it from me deliberately. I ought to be offended, but to be honest I’m relieved to have been spared the anxiety. It demanded far more nerve than I could ever have mustered. To have come to the Senate with a concealed blade, to have waited all that time, to have held one’s nerve, to have risked massacre by Caesar’s supporters, and finally to have looked the tyrant in the eye and plunged in the dagger—I don’t mind confessing I could never have done it.”

Quintus said, “I could!”

Cicero laughed. “Well, you’re more used to blood than I am.”

“And yet do none of you feel any sorrow for Caesar, simply as a man?” I asked. “After all,” I said to Cicero, “it’s only three months since you were laughing with him over dinner.”

Cicero looked at me with incredulity. “I’m amazed that you should ask me that. I imagine I feel as you must have felt on the day you received your freedom. Whether Caesar was a kind master or a cruel one is neither here nor there—master he was, and slaves was what he made us. And now we have been liberated. So let’s have no talk of sorrow.”

He sent out a secretary to see if he could discover the whereabouts of Brutus and the other conspirators. The man came back soon afterwards and reported that they were said to be occupying the upper ground of the Capitol.

Cicero said, “I must go at once and offer my support.”

“Is that wise?” I asked. “As things stand, you bear no responsibility for the killing. But if you go and show your solidarity with them in public, Caesar’s supporters may not see much difference between you and Cassius and Brutus.”

“Let them. I intend to thank the men who’ve given me back my liberty.”

The others agreed and we set off at once, all four of us, with a few slaves for protection—along the slope of the Palatine, down the steps into the valley and across the road of Jugarius to the foot of the Tarpeian Rock. The air was eerily still and torpid with an approaching storm; the thoroughfare, normally busy with ox carts, was deserted apart from a few people wandering in the direction of the Forum. Their expressions were stunned, bewildered, fearful. And certainly if one sought for portents one had only to glance up at the sky. Massy dense black clouds seemed to be pressing down upon the roofs of the temples, and as we began to climb the steep flight of steps there was a flash and a crack of thunder. The rain was cold and heavy. The stones became slippery. We had to pause halfway to recover our breath. Beside us a stream ran over the green mossy rock and turned into a waterfall; below us I could see the curve of the Tiber, the city walls, the Field of Mars. I realised then how shrewd a piece of military planning it had been to retire straight from the scene of the assassination to the Capitol: its sheer cliffs made it a naturally impregnable fortress.

We pressed on until we came to the gate at the summit, which was guarded by gladiators, fearsome-looking characters from Nearer Gaul. With them was one of Decimus’s officers. He recognised Cicero and ordered the men to admit us, then he conducted us himself into the walled compound, past the chained dogs that guarded the place at night, and into the Temple of Jupiter, where at least a hundred men were gathered, sheltering in the gloom from the rain.

As Cicero entered he was greeted with applause and he went round shaking hands with all of the assassins apart from Brutus, whose hand was bandaged because of the wound Cassius had accidentally inflicted on him. They had changed out of their bloodied clothes into freshly laundered togas, and their demeanour was sober, even grim, with nothing left of the euphoria that had immediately followed the killing. I was amazed to see how many of Caesar’s closest followers had rushed to join them: L. Cornelius Cinna, for example, the brother of Caesar’s first wife and uncle of Julia—Caesar had recently made him praetor, yet here he was with his ex-brother-in-law’s murderers. And here too was Dolabella—the ever-faithless Dolabella—who had raised not a finger to defend Caesar in the Senate chamber, and who now had his arm round the shoulder of Decimus, the man who had lured their old chief to his doom. He came over to join in the conversation that Cicero was having with Brutus and Cassius.

Brutus said, “So you approve of what we have done?”

“Approve? It’s the greatest deed in the history of the republic! But tell me,” asked Cicero, with a glance around the sombre interior, “why are you all cooped up here out of sight like criminals? Why aren’t you down in the Forum rallying the people to your cause?”

“We are patriots, not demagogues. Our aim was to remove the tyrant, nothing more.”

Cicero stared at him in surprise. “But then who is running the country?”

Brutus said, “At the moment, no one. The next step is to establish a new government.”

“Shouldn’t you simply declare yourselves to be the government?”

“That would be illegal. We didn’t pull down a tyrant in order to set ourselves up as tyrants in his place.”

“Well then summon the Senate here now, to this temple—you have the power as praetors—and let the Senate declare a state of emergency until elections can be held. That would be entirely legal.”

“We think it would be more constitutional if Mark Antony, as consul, summoned the Senate.”

“Mark Antony?” Cicero’s surprise was turning to alarm. “You mustn’t let him anywhere near this business. He has all of Caesar’s worst qualities and none of his best.” He appealed to Cassius to back him up.

Cassius said, “I agree with you. In my view we should have killed him at the same time as we killed Caesar. But Brutus wouldn’t tolerate it. Therefore Trebonius delayed him on his way in to the chamber, so that he could get away.”

“And where is he now?”

“Presumably in his house.”

“That I would doubt, knowing him,” said Dolabella. “He will be busy in the city.”

Throughout these exchanges I had noticed Decimus talking to a couple of his gladiators. Now he hurried across, his expression grim. He said, “There’s a report that Lepidus is moving his legion off Tiber Island.”

Cassius said, “We’ll be able to see for ourselves from here.”

We went outside and followed Cassius and Decimus around the side of the great temple to the raised paved area to the north that gives a view for miles over the Field of Mars and beyond. And there was no doubt of it: the legionaries were marching across the bridge and forming up on the riverbank nearest the city.

Brutus betrayed his anxiety by a constant tapping of his foot. He said, “I sent a messenger to Lepidus hours ago but he hasn’t returned an answer.”

Cassius pointed. “That’s his answer.”

Cicero said, “Brutus, I implore you—I implore you all—go down to the Forum and tell the people what you’ve done and why you’ve done it. Fire them with the spirit of the old republic. Otherwise Lepidus will trap you up here and Antony will take control of the city.”

Even Brutus could now see the wisdom of this, and so a procession of the conspirators—or assassins, or freedom fighters, or liberators: no one ever could agree exactly what to call them—descended the twisting road that led from the summit of the Capitol around behind the Temple of Saturn and down into the Forum. At Cicero’s suggestion they left their bodyguard of gladiators behind: “It will make the best possible impression of our sincerity if we walk alone and unarmed; besides, if there is trouble, we can retreat quickly enough.”

It had stopped raining. Three or four hundred citizens had gathered in the Forum and were standing around listlessly among the puddles, apparently waiting for something to happen. They saw us coming when we were still quite a long way off, and moved towards us. I had no idea how they would react. Caesar had always been a great favourite of the mob, although latterly even they had come to weary of his kingly ways—to dread his looming wars and to pine for the old days of elections when they had to be courted by the dozens of candidates with flattery and bribes. Would they applaud us or try to tear us apart? In the event they did neither. The crowd watched in absolute silence as we entered the Forum and then parted to let us pass. The praetors—Brutus, Cassius and Cinna—went up on to the rostra to address them, while the rest of us, including Cicero, stood at the side to watch.

Brutus spoke first, and although I can remember his sombre opening line—“As my noble ancestor Junius Brutus drove the tyrant-king Tarquin from the city, so today have I rid us of the tyrant-dictator Caesar”—the rest of it I have forgotten. That was the problem. He had obviously laboured hard over it for days, and no doubt as an essay on the wickedness of despotism it read well. But as Cicero had long tried to convince him, a speech is a performance, not a philosophical discourse: it must appeal to the emotions more than to the intellect. A fiery oration at that moment might have transformed the situation—might have inspired the crowd to defend the Forum and their liberty from the soldiers who even now were massing on the Field of Mars. But Brutus gave them a lecture that was three parts history to one part political theory. I could hear Cicero beside me muttering under his breath. It did not help that while he was speaking, Brutus’s wound began to bleed beneath its bandage; one was distracted from what he was saying by that gory reminder of what he had done.

After what felt like a long time, Brutus ended to applause best described as thoughtful. Cassius spoke next, and not badly either, for he had taken lessons in oratory from Cicero in Tusculum. But he was a professional soldier who had spent little time in Rome: he was respected but he was not much known, let alone loved. He received less applause even than Brutus. The disaster, however, was Cinna. He was an orator of the old-fashioned, melodramatic school, and tried to inject some passion into proceedings by tearing off his praetorian robe and hurling it from the rostra, denouncing it as the gift of a despot that he was ashamed to be seen wearing. The hypocrisy was too much to bear. Someone yelled out, “You didn’t say that yesterday!” The remark was cheered, which emboldened another heckler to shout: “You’d have been nothing without Caesar, you old has-been!” In the chorus of jeering, Cinna’s voice was lost—and the meeting with it.

Cicero said, “Now this is a fiasco.”

“You are the orator,” said Decimus. “Will you say something to retrieve the situation?” and to my horror I saw that Cicero was tempted. But at that moment Decimus was handed a new report that Lepidus’s legion appeared to be moving towards the city. He beckoned urgently to the praetors to come down off the rostra, and with as much confidence as we could muster, which was little, we all trooped back up to the Capitol.

—

It was typical of Brutus’s other-worldliness that he should have believed right up until the last moment that Lepidus would never dare to break the law by bringing an army across the sacred boundary and into Rome. After all, he assured Cicero, he knew the Master of Horse extremely well: Lepidus was married to his sister Junia Secunda (just as Cassius was married to his half-sister Junia Tertia).

“Believe me, he’s a patrician through and through. He won’t do anything illegal. I have always found him an absolute stickler for dignity and protocol.”

And at first it seemed he might be right, as the legion, after crossing the bridge and moving towards the city walls, halted on the Field of Mars and pitched camp about half a mile away. Then soon after nightfall, we heard the plaintive notes of the war horns. They set the dogs barking in the walled compound of the temple and sent us hurrying out to see what was going on. Heavy cloud obscured the moon and stars but the distant lights of the legion’s campfires shone clearly in the darkness. Even as we watched, the fires seemed to splinter and rearrange themselves into snakes of fire.

Cassius said, “They are marching with torches.”

A line of light began wavering along the road towards the Carmenta Gate. Presently on the moist night air we heard the faint tramp of the legionaries’ boots. The gate was almost directly beneath us, obscured from sight by outcrops of rock. Lepidus’s vanguard found it locked and hammered for admittance and cried out to the porter. But I guess he must have run away. There was a long interval when nothing happened. Then a battering ram was brought up. A series of heavy thuds was followed by the noise of splintering wood. Men cheered. Leaning over the parapet, we watched the legionaries with their torches slip quickly through the ruptured gate, deploy around the base of the Capitol and fan out across the Forum to secure the main public buildings.