Lustrum

  By the time we reached the Field of Mars, thousands of citizens were already straining for a glimpse of their hero, who was now rumoured to be only a mile or two away. I could see that Cicero was slightly put out by the fact that for once the crowds all had their backs to him and paid him no attention, and when we went into the Villa Publica his dignity received another blow. He had assumed he was going to meet Pompey privately, but instead he discovered several other senators with their attendants already waiting, including the new consuls, Pupius Piso and Valerius Messalla. The room was gloomy and cold, in that way of official buildings that are little used, and yet although it smelled strongly of damp, no one had troubled to light a fire. Here Cicero was obliged to settle down to wait on a hard gilt chair, making stiff conversation with Pupius, a taciturn lieutenant of Pompey's whom he had known for many years and did not like.

  After about an hour, the noise of the crowd began to grow and I realised that Pompey must have come into view. Soon the racket was so intimidating the senators gave up trying to talk and sat mute, like strangers thrown together by chance while seeking shelter from a thunderstorm. People ran to and fro outside, and cried and cheered. A trumpet sounded. Eventually we heard the clump of boots filling the antechamber next door, and a man said, 'Well, you can't say the people of Rome don't love you, Imperator!' And then Pompey's booming voice could be heard clearly in reply: 'Yes, that went well enough. That certainly went well enough.'

  Cicero rose along with the other senators, and a moment later into the room strode the great general, in full uniform of scarlet cloak and glittering bronze breastplate on which was carved a sun spreading its rays. He handed his plumed helmet to an aide as his officers and lictors poured in behind him. His hair was as improbably thick as ever and he ran his meaty fingers through it, pushing it back in the familiar cresting wave that peaked above his broad, sunburnt face. He had changed little in six years except to have become – if such a thing were possible – even more physically imposing. His torso was immense. He shook hands with the consuls and the other senators, and exchanged a few words with each, while Cicero looked on awkwardly. Finally he moved on to my master. 'Marcus Tullius!' he exclaimed. Taking a step backwards, he appraised Cicero carefully, gesturing in mock-wonder first at his polished red shoes and then up the crisp lines of his purple-bordered toga to his neatly trimmed hair. 'You look very well. Come then,' he said, beckoning him closer, 'let me embrace the man but for whom I would have no country left to return to!' He flung his arms around Cicero, crushing him to his breastplate in a hug, and winked at us over his shoulder. 'I know that must be true, because it's what he keeps on telling me!' Everyone laughed, and Cicero tried to join in. But Pompey's clasp had squeezed all the air out of him, and he could only manage a mirthless wheeze. 'Well, gentlemen,' continued Pompey, beaming around the room, 'shall we sit?'

  A large chair was carried in for the imperator and he settled himself into it. An ivory pointer was placed in his hand. A carpet was unrolled at his feet into which was woven a map of the East, and as the senators gazed down, he began gesturing at it to illustrate his achievements. I made some notes as he talked, and afterwards Cicero spent a long while studying them with an expression of disbelief. In the course of his campaign, Pompey claimed to have captured one thousand fortifications, nine hundred cities, and fourteen entire countries, including Syria, Palestine, Arabia, Mesopotamia and Judaea. The pointer flourished again. He had established no fewer than thirty-nine new cities, only three of which he had allowed to name themselves Pompeiopolis. He had levied a property tax on the East that would increase the annual revenues of Rome by two thirds. From his personal funds he proposed to make an immediate donation to the treasury of two hundred million sesterces. 'I have doubled the size of our empire, gentlemen. Rome's frontier now stands on the Red Sea.'

  Even as I was writing this down, I was struck by the singular tone in which Pompey gave his account. He spoke throughout of 'my' this and 'my' that. But were all these states and cities, and these vast amounts of money, really his, or were they Rome's?

  'I shall require a retrospective bill to legalise all this, of course,' he concluded.

  There was a pause. Cicero, who had just about recovered his breath, raised an eyebrow. 'Really? Just one bill?'

  'One bill,' affirmed Pompey, handing his ivory stick to an attendant, 'which need be of just one sentence: “The senate and people of Rome hereby approve all decisions made by Pompey the Great in his settlement of the East.” Naturally, you can add some lines of congratulation if you wish, but that will be the essence of it.'

  Cicero glanced at the other senators. None met his gaze. They were happy to let him do the talking. 'And is there anything else you desire?'

  'The consulship.'

  'When?'

  'Next year. A decade after my first. Perfectly legal.'

  'But to stand for election you will need to enter the city, which will mean surrendering your imperium. And surely you intend to triumph?'

  'Of course. I shall triumph on my birthday, in September.'

  'But then how can this be done?'

  'Simple. Another bill. One sentence again: “The senate and people of Rome hereby permit Pompey the Great to seek election to the office of consul in absentia.” I hardly need to canvass for the post, I think. People know who I am!' He smiled and looked around him.

  'And your army?'

  'Disbanded and dispersed. They will need rewarding, of course. I've given them my word.'

  The consul Messalla spoke up. 'We received reports that you promised them land.'

  'That's right.' Even Pompey could detect the hostility in the silence that followed. 'Listen, gentlemen,' he said, leaning forward in his throne-like chair, 'let's talk frankly. You know I could have marched with my legionaries to the gates of Rome and demanded whatever I wanted. But it's my intention to serve the senate, not to dictate to it, and I've just travelled up through Italy in the most humble manner to demonstrate exactly that. And I want to go on demonstrating it. You have all heard that I've divorced?' The senators nodded. 'Then how would it be if I made a marriage that tied me to the senatorial party for ever?'

  'I think I speak for us all,' said Cicero cautiously, checking with the others, 'when I say that the senate desires nothing more than to work with you, and that a marriage alliance would be of the greatest help. Do you have a candidate in mind?'

  'I do, as a matter of fact. I'm told Cato is a force in the senate these days, and Cato has nieces and daughters of marriageable age. My plan is that I should take one of these girls as my wife and my eldest son should take another. There.' He sat back contentedly. 'How does that strike you?'

  'It strikes us very well,' responded Cicero, again after a quick glance around his colleagues. 'An alliance between the houses of Cato and Pompey will secure peace for a generation. The populists will all be prostrated with shock and the good men will all rejoice.' He smiled. 'I congratulate you on a brilliant stroke, Imperator. What does Cato say?'

  'Oh, he doesn't know of it yet.'

  Cicero's smile became fixed. 'You have divorced Mucia and severed your connections with the Metelli in order to marry a connection of Cato – but you have not yet enquired what Cato's reaction might be?'

  'I suppose you could put it that way. Why? Do you think there'll be a problem?'

  'With most men I would say no, but with Cato – well, one can never be sure where the undeviating arrow flight of his logic may lead him. Have you told many other people of your intentions?'

  'A few.'

  'In that case, might I suggest, Imperator, that we suspend our discussions for the time being, while you send an emissary to Cato as quickly as possible?'

  A dark cloud had passed over Pompey's hitherto sunny expression – it had obviously never entered his mind that Cato might refuse him: if he did, it would mean a terrible loss of face – and in a distracted tone he agreed to Cicero's suggestion. By the time we left, he was already holding an urgent consultatio
n with Lucius Afranius, his closest confidant. Outside, the crowds were as dense as ever, and even though Pompey's guards opened the gates only just wide enough to let us depart, they very nearly found themselves overwhelmed by the numbers pressing to get in. People shouted out to Cicero and the consuls as they struggled back towards the city: 'Have you spoken to him?' 'What does he say?' 'Is it true he has become a god?'

  'He was not a god the last time I looked,' replied Cicero cheerfully, 'although he is not far off it! He is looking forward to rejoining us in the senate. What a farce,' he added to me, out of the corner of his mouth. 'Plautus could not have come up with a more absurd scenario.'

  It did indeed turn out exactly as Cicero had feared. Pompey sent that very day for Cato's friend Munatius, who conveyed the great man's offer of a double marriage to Cato's house, where as it happened his family were all gathered for a feast. The womenfolk were overjoyed at the prospect, such was the status of Pompey as Rome's greatest war hero, and the renown of his magnificent physique. But Cato flew into an immediate rage, and without pausing for thought or consulting anyone made the following reply: 'Go, Munatius: go and tell Pompey that Cato is not to be captured by way of women's apartments. He greatly prizes Pompey's goodwill, and if Pompey behaves properly will grant him a friendship more to be relied upon than any marriage connection. But he will not give hostages for the glory of Pompey to the detriment of his country!'

  Pompey, by all accounts, was stunned by the rudeness of the reply ('if Pompey behaves properly'!) and quit the Villa Publica at once in a very ill humour to go to his house in the Alban Hills. But even here he was pursued by tormenting demons determined to puncture his dignity. His daughter, then aged nine, whom he had not seen since she could barely speak, had been coached by her tutor, the famous grammarian Aristodemus of Nyssa, to greet her father with some passages from Homer. Unfortunately, the first line she spoke as he came through the door was that of Helen to Paris: 'You came back from the war; I wish you had died there.' Too many people witnessed the episode for it not to become public, and I am afraid that Cicero found it so funny he too played his part in spreading the story across Rome.

  In the midst of all this tumult it was possible to believe that the affair of the Good Goddess might be forgotten. More than a month had now passed since the outrage, and Clodius had been careful to keep out of public view. People had started to talk of other things. But a day or two after the return of Pompey, the College of Priests finally handed its judgement on the incident to the senate. Pupius, who was the leading consul, was a friend of Clodius, and keen to hush up the scandal. Nevertheless, he was obliged to read out the priests' report, and their verdict was unambiguous. Clodius's action was a clear case of nefas – an impious deed, a sin, a crime against the goddess, an abomination.

  The first senator on his feet was Lucullus, and what a sweet moment this must have been for him as, with great solemnity, he declared that his former brother-in-law had besmirched the traditions of the republic and had risked bringing the wrath of the gods down upon the city. 'Their anger can only be appeased,' he said, 'by the sternest punishment of the offender,' and he formally proposed that Clodius be charged with violating the sanctity of the Vestal Virgins – an offence for which the penalty was to be beaten to death. Cato seconded the motion. The two patrician leaders, Hortensius and Catulus, both rose in support, and it was clear that the mood of the house was strongly with them. They demanded that the most powerful magistrate in Rome after the consuls, the urban praetor, should convene a special court, appoint a hand-picked jury drawn from the senate, and try the case as speedily as possible. With such men in control, the result would be pre-ordained. Pupius agreed reluctantly to draw up a bill to this effect and by the time the session was over, Clodius looked to be a dead man.

  Late that night, when I heard someone knock on the front door, I was sure in my bones that it must be Clodius. Despite Cicero's snub on the day after the Good Goddess fiasco, the young man had continued to make regular return visits to the house in the hope of a meeting. But I was under strict instructions to refuse him admittance: much to his irritation, he had never got further than the atrium. Now, as I crossed the hall, I braced myself for another unpleasant scene. But to my astonishment, when I unlocked the door, the person I found standing on the step was Clodia. Normally she voyaged around the city amid a flotilla of maids, but on this night she was unescorted. She asked in a very cool voice if my master was in, and I replied that I would check. I showed her into the hall and invited her to wait and then almost ran into the library, where Cicero was working. When I announced who had come to see him, he laid down his pen and thought for a moment or two.

  'Has Terentia gone up to her room?'

  'I believe so.'

  'Then show her in.' I was amazed that he should take such a risk, and he must have realised the dangers himself, for just as I was leaving, he said, 'Make sure you don't leave us alone together.'

  I went and fetched her. The moment she entered the library she crossed to where Cicero was standing and quickly knelt at his feet. 'I have come to plead for your support,' she said, bowing her head. 'My poor boy is beside himself with fear and remorse, yet he is too proud to try to ask you for help again, so I am here alone.' She took the hem of his toga in her hands and kissed it. 'My dear friend, it takes a great deal for a Claudian to kneel, but I am begging for your help.'

  'Get up off the floor, Clodia,' replied Cicero, glancing anxiously at the door. 'Someone may see you, and the story will be all over Rome.' When she did not respond, he added, more gently, 'I won't even talk to you unless you get on your feet!' Clodia rose, her head still bowed. 'Now listen to me,' said Cicero. 'I'll say this once and then you must leave. You want me to help your brother, yes?' Clodia nodded. 'Then tell him he must do precisely what I say. He must write letters to every one of those women whose honour he has outraged. He must tell them he is sorry, it was a fit of madness, he is no longer worthy to breathe the same air as them and their daughters, and so on and so forth – believe me, he cannot be too obsequious. Then he must renounce his quaestorship. Leave Rome. Go into exile. Stay away from the city for a few years. When things calm down, he can come back and start again. It's the best advice I can offer. Goodbye.'

  He began to turn away from her, but she grabbed his arm.

  'Leaving Rome will kill him!'

  'No, madam, staying in Rome will kill him. There is bound to be a trial and he is bound to be found guilty. Lucullus will see to that. But Lucullus is old and lazy, and your brother is young and energetic. Time is his greatest ally. Tell him I said that, and that I wish him well, and tell him to go tomorrow.'

  'If he stays in Rome, will you join in the attacks on him?'

  'I will do my best to keep out of it.'

  'And if it comes to a trial,' she said, still holding his arm, 'will you defend him?'

  'No, that is completely impossible.'

  'Why?'

  'Why?' Cicero gave an incredulous laugh. 'Any one of a thousand reasons.'

  'Is it because you believe he is guilty?'

  'My dear Clodia, the whole world knows he is guilty!'

  'But you defended Cornelius Sulla, and the whole world knew he was guilty, too.'

  'But this is different.'

  'Why?'

  'My wife, for one thing,' said Cicero softly, with another glance at the door. 'My wife was present. She witnessed the entire episode.'

  'You are saying your wife would divorce you if you defended my brother?'

  'Yes, I believe she would.'

  'Then take another wife,' said Clodia, and stepping back but still staring at him she quickly untied her cloak and let it fall from her shoulders. Beneath it she was naked. The dark smoothness of her oiled skin glistened in the candlelight. I was standing almost directly behind her. She knew I was watching, yet she no more minded my presence than if I had been a table or a footstool. The air seemed to thicken. Cicero stood perfectly still. Thinking back on it, I am reminded o
f that moment in the senate, in the chaos after the debate on the conspirators, when a single word or gesture of assent from him would have led to Caesar's death, and the world – our world – would have been entirely different. So it was now. After a long pause he gave the very slightest shake of his head, and, stooping, he retrieved her cloak and held it out to her.

  'Put it back on,' he said quietly.

  She ignored it. Instead she put her hands on her hips. 'You really prefer that pious old broomstick to me?'

  'Yes.' He sounded surprised by his own answer. 'When it comes to it, I believe I do.'

  'Then what a fool you are,' she said, and turned around so that Cicero could drape the cloak across her shoulders. The gesture was as casual as if she were going home after a dinner party. She caught me looking at her and her eyes flashed me such a look that I quickly dropped my gaze. 'You will think back on this moment,' she said, briskly fastening her cloak, 'and regret it for the rest of your life.'

  'No I won't, because I shall put it out of my mind, and I suggest you do the same.'

  'Why should I want to forget it?' She smiled and shook her head. 'How my brother will laugh when he hears about it.'

  'You'll tell him?'

  'Of course. It was his idea.'

  'Not a word,' said Cicero after Clodia had gone. He held up a warning hand. He did not want to discuss it, and we never did. Rumours that something had occurred between them circulated for many years, but I always refused to comment on the gossip. I have kept this secret for half a century.

  Ambition and lust are often intertwined. In some men, such as Caesar and Clodius, they are as tightly plaited as a rope. With Cicero it was the opposite case. I believe he had a passionate nature, but it frightened him. Like his stutter or his youthful illnesses or his unsteady nerves, he viewed passion as a handicap, to be overcome by discipline. He therefore learned to separate this strand in his nature, and to avoid it. But the gods are implacable, and despite his resolution not to have anything to do with Clodia and her brother, he soon found himself being sucked into the quickening whirlpool of the scandal.