The Dictator (46 page)

“Well,” said Cicero with a grin, “what do you think?”

I replied, “It’s very gratifying.”

“Gratifying? Come now—use your imagination! It’s more than that! I’ve been thinking about it ever since I got it.”

After a slave had helped him out of his outdoor clothes, he beckoned me and Atticus to follow him into his study and asked me to close the door.

“Here is the situation as I see it. Were it not for Octavian, Antony would have taken Rome and our cause would be finished by now. But fear of Octavian forced the wolf to drop his prey at the last moment and now he’s slinking north to devour Nearer Gaul instead. If he defeats Decimus this winter and takes the province—which he probably will—he will have the financial base and the forces to return to Rome in the spring and finish us off. All that stands between us and him is Octavian.”

Atticus said sceptically, “You really think Octavian has raised an army in order to defend what’s left of the republic?”

“No, but equally is it in his interests to allow Antony to take control of Rome? Of course not. Antony at this juncture is his real enemy—the one who has stolen his inheritance and denies his claims. If I can persuade Octavian to see that, we may yet save ourselves from disaster.”

“Possibly—but only to deliver the republic from the clutches of one tyrant into those of another; and a tyrant who calls himself Caesar at that.”

“Oh, I don’t know if the lad is a tyrant—I think I may be able to use my influence to keep him on the side of virtue, at least until Antony is disposed of.”

“His letter certainly seems to suggest he would listen to you,” I said.

“Exactly. Believe me, Atticus, I could show you thirty such letters if I could be bothered to find them, going all the way back to April. Why is he so eager for my counsel? The truth is the boy lacks a father figure—his natural father is dead; his stepfather is a goose; and his adopted father has left him the greatest legacy in history but no guidance on how to gain hold of it. Somehow I seem to have stepped into the paternal role, which is a blessing—not so much for me as for the republic.”

Atticus said, “So what are you going to do?”

“I shall go and see him.”

“In Etruria, in the middle of winter, at your age? It’s a hundred miles away. You must be mad.”

I said, “But you can hardly expect Octavian to come to Rome.”

Cicero waved away these objections. “Then we’ll meet halfway. That villa you bought the other year, Atticus, on Lake Volsinii—that would suit the purpose admirably. Is it occupied?”

“No, but I can’t vouch for its comfort.”

“That doesn’t matter. Tiro, draft a letter from me to Octavian proposing a meeting in Volsinii as soon as he can manage it.”

Atticus said, “But what about the Senate? What about the consuls-designate? You have no power to negotiate on behalf of the republic with anyone, let alone with a man at the head of a rebel army.”

“Nobody is wielding power in the republic any more. That’s the point. It’s lying in the dust waiting for whoever dares to pick it up. Why shouldn’t I be the one to seize it?”

Atticus had no answer to that and Cicero’s invitation went off to Octavian within the hour. After three days of anxious waiting Cicero received his reply:
Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see you again. I shall meet you in Volsinii on the sixteenth as you propose unless I hear that that has become inconvenient. I suggest we keep our rendezvous secret.

—

To ensure that no one would guess what he was up to, Cicero insisted we leave in the darkness long before dawn on the morning of the fourteenth of December. I had to bribe the sentries to open the Fontinalian Gate especially for us.

We knew we would be venturing into lawless country, full of roaming bands of armed men, and so we travelled in a closed carriage escorted by a large retinue of guards and attendants. Once across the Mulvian Bridge we turned left along the bank of the Tiber and joined the Via Cassia, a road I had never travelled before. By noon we were climbing into hilly country. Atticus had promised me spectacular views. But the dismal weather Italy had endured ever since Caesar’s assassination continued to curse us, and the distant peaks of the pine-covered mountains were draped in mist. For the entire two days we were on the road it barely seemed to get light.

Cicero’s earlier ebullience had faded. He was uncharacteristically quiet, conscious no doubt that the future of the republic might depend on the coming meeting. On the afternoon of the second day, as we reached the edge of the great lake and our destination came into view, he began to complain of feeling cold. He shivered and blew on his hands, but when I tried to cover his knees with a blanket, he threw it off like an irritable child and said that although he might be ancient, he was not an invalid.

Atticus had bought his property as an investment and had only visited it once; still, he never forgot a thing when it came to money and he quickly remembered where to find it. Large and dilapidated—parts of it dated back to Etruscan times—the villa stood just outside the city walls of Volsinii, right on the edge of the water. The iron gates were open. Drifts of dead leaves had rotted in the damp courtyard; black lichen and moss covered the terracotta roofs. Only a thin curl of smoke rising from the chimney gave any sign it was inhabited. We assumed from the deserted grounds that Octavian had not yet arrived. But as we descended from the carriage, the steward hurried forward and said that a young man was waiting inside.

He was sitting in the tablinum with his friend Agrippa and he rose as we entered. I looked to see if the spectacular change in his fortunes was reflected at all in his manner or person, but he seemed exactly as before: quiet, modest, watchful, with the same unstylish haircut and youthful acne. He had come without any escort, he said, apart from two chariot drivers, who had taken their teams to be fed and watered in the town. (“No one knows what I look like, so I prefer not to draw attention to myself; it is better to hide in plain sight, don’t you think?”) He clasped hands very warmly with Cicero. After the introductions were over, Cicero said, “I thought Tiro here could make a note of anything we agree on and then we could each have a copy.”

Octavian said, “So you’re empowered to negotiate?”

“No, but it would be useful to have something to show to the leaders of the Senate.”

“Personally, if you don’t mind, I would prefer it if nothing were written down. That way we can talk more freely.”

There is therefore no verbatim record of their conference, although I wrote up an account immediately afterwards for Cicero’s personal use. First Octavian gave a summary of the military situation as he understood it. He had, or would have shortly, four legions at his disposal: the veterans from Campania, the levies he was raising in Etruria, the Martian and the Fourth. Antony had three legions, including the Larks, but also another entirely inexperienced, and was closing in on Decimus, whom he understood from his agents had retreated to the city of Mutina, where he was slaughtering and salting cattle and preparing for a long siege. Cicero said that the Senate had eleven legions in Further Gaul: seven under Lepidus and four under Plancus.

Octavian said, “Yes, but they are the wrong side of the Alps and are needed to hold down Gaul. Besides, we both know the commanders are not necessarily reliable, especially Lepidus.”

“I shan’t argue with you,” said Cicero. “The position boils down to this: you have the soldiers but no legitimacy; we have the legitimacy but no soldiers. What we do both have, however, is a common enemy—Antony. And it seems to me that somewhere in that mixture must be the basis for an agreement.”

Agrippa said, “An agreement you’ve just told us you have no authority to make.”

“Young man, take it from me, if you want to make a deal with the Senate, I am your best hope. And let me tell you something else—it will be no easy task to convince them, even for me. There’ll be plenty who’ll say, ‘We didn’t get rid of one Caesar to ally ourselves with another.’ ”

“Yes,” retorted Agrippa, “and plenty on our side who’ll say, ‘Why should we fight to protect the men who murdered Caesar? This is just a trick to buy us off until they’re strong enough to destroy us.’ ”

Cicero slammed his hands on the armrests of his chair. “If that is how you feel, then this has been a wasted journey.”

He made as if to rise, but Octavian leaned across and pressed down on his shoulder. “Not so fast, my dear friend. No need to take offence. I agree with your analysis. My sole objective is to defeat Antony, and I would much prefer to do that with the legal authority of the Senate.”

Cicero said, “Let us be clear: you would prefer it even if—and this is what it
would
mean—you have to go to the rescue of Decimus, the very man who lured your adopted father to his death?”

Octavian fixed him with his cold grey eyes. “I have no problem with that.”

From then on, there was no doubt in my mind that Cicero and Octavian would make a deal. Even Agrippa seemed to relax a little. It was agreed that Cicero would propose in the Senate that Octavian, despite his age, be given imperium and the legal authority to wage war against Antony. In return, Octavian would place himself under the command of the consuls. What might happen in the longer term, after Antony was destroyed, was left vague. Nothing was written down.

Cicero said, “You will be able to tell if I have fulfilled my side of my bargain by reading my speeches—which I shall send you—and in the resolutions passed by the Senate. And I shall know from the movements of your legions if you are fulfilling yours.”

Octavian said, “You need have no doubts on that score.”

Atticus went off to find the steward and came back with a jug of Tuscan wine and five silver cups which he filled and handed round. Cicero felt moved to make a speech. “On this day youth and experience, arms and the toga, have come together in solemn compact to rescue the commonwealth. Let us go forth from this place, each man to his station, resolved to do his duty to the republic.”

“To the republic,” said Octavian, and raised his cup.

“To the republic!” we all echoed, and drank.

Octavian and Agrippa politely refused to stay the night: they explained that they needed to reach their nearby camp before darkness as the next day was Saturnalia and Octavian was expected to distribute gifts to his men. After much mutual backslapping and protestations of undying affection, Cicero and Octavian said goodbye to one another. The young man’s parting phrase I still remember: “Your speeches and my swords will make an unbeatable alliance.” When they had gone, Cicero went out on to the terrace and walked around in the rain to calm his nerves while I out of habit cleared away the wine cups. Octavian, I noticed, had not touched a drop.

Cicero had not expected to have to address the Senate until the first day of January, when Hirtius and Pansa were due to take over as consuls. But on our return we discovered the tribunes had summoned an emergency meeting to be held in two days’ time to discuss the looming war between Antony and Decimus. Cicero decided that the sooner he made good on his promise to Octavian the better. Accordingly he went down to the Temple of Concordia early in the morning to show his intention of speaking. As usual I went with him and stood at the door to record his remarks.

Once word spread that Cicero was in his place, people began pouring into the Forum. Senators who might not otherwise have attended also decided they had better come to hear what he had to say. Within an hour the benches were packed. Among those who changed his plans was the consul-designate, Hirtius. He rose from his sickbed for the first time in weeks, and his appearance when he walked into the temple drew gasps. The plump young gourmet who had helped write Caesar’s
Commentaries
and who used to entertain Cicero to dinners of swan and peacock had shrivelled to barely more than a skeleton. I believe he was suffering from what Hippocrates, the father of Greek medicine, calls a
carcino;
he had a scar on his neck where a growth had been recently removed.

The tribune who presided over the session was Appuleius, a friend of Cicero. He began by reading out an edict issued by Decimus denying Antony permission to enter Nearer Gaul, reiterating his determination to keep the province loyal to the Senate and confirming that he had moved his forces into Mutina. That was the town where I had delivered Cicero’s letter to Caesar all those years before, and I recalled its stout walls and heavy gates: much would depend on whether it could hold out against a long siege by Antony’s superior forces. When he had finished reading, Appuleius said, “Within days—perhaps even already—the republic will be gripped once more by civil war. The question is: what are we to do? I call on Cicero to give us his opinion.”

Hundreds of men leaned forwards in anticipation as Cicero rose.

“This meeting, honourable gentlemen, comes not a moment too soon in my opinion. An iniquitous war against our hearths and altars, our lives and fortunes, is no longer just being prepared but is actually being waged by a profligate and wanton man. It is no good our waiting for the first day of January before we act. Antony does not wait. He’s already attacking the eminent and remarkable Decimus. And from Nearer Gaul he threatens to descend on us in Rome. Indeed, he would have done so before now had it not been for a young man—or almost rather a boy, but one of incredible and near-godlike intelligence and courage—who raised an army and saved the state.”