As usual there were demonstrators in the street, but far fewer than when the bill forbidding Cicero fire and water had first been promulgated. Most of the mob, like a cat at a mousehole, had grown weary of waiting for their victim to appear. Still, what the remainder lacked in numbers they made up for in venom, and they set up a great racket of 'Tyrant!' and 'Murderer!' and 'Death!' and as Cicero appeared they surged forwards. He stepped straight into the carriage, and I followed. A bodyguard was sitting up on the roof with the driver, and he leaned down to me to ask where we were to go. I looked at Cicero.
'To Pompey's house,' he said.
'But Pompey's not in Rome,' I protested. By this time, fists were pounding against the side of the carriage.
'Where is he, then?'
'At his place in the Alban Hills.'
'All the better,' replied Cicero. 'He will not be expecting me.'
I shouted up to the driver that we should head for the Capena Gate, and with a crack of his whip, and a final flurry of shouts and thumps on the wooden panels, we lurched forward.
The journey must have taken us at least two hours, and in the whole of that time Cicero did not utter a word, but sat hunched in the corner of the carriage, his legs turned away from me, as if he wished to compress himself into the smallest space possible. Only when we turned off the highway on to Pompey's long gravelled drive did he uncoil his body and peer out of the window at the opulent grounds, with their topiary and statuary. 'I shall shame him into protecting me,' he said, 'and if he still refuses I shall kill myself at his feet and he will be cursed by history for his cowardice for ever. You think I don't mean it? I am perfectly serious.' He put his hand in the pocket of his tunic and showed me a small knife, its blade no wider than his hand. He grinned at me. He seemed to have gone quite mad.
We pulled up in front of the great country villa, and Pompey's household steward sprang forward to open the carriage door. Cicero had been here countless times. The slave knew him very well. But his smile of greeting shrivelled as he saw Cicero's unkempt face and black tunic, and he took a step backwards in shock. 'Do you smell that, Tiro?' asked Cicero, offering me the back of his hand. He raised it to his own nostrils and sniffed. 'That's the smell of death.' He gave an odd laugh, then climbed down from the carriage and strode towards the house, saying to the steward over his shoulder, 'Tell your master I'm here. I know where to go.'
I hastened after him, and we went into a long salon filled with antique furniture, tapestries and carpets. Souvenirs of Pompey's many campaigns were on display in cabinets – red-glazed pottery from Spain, ebony carvings from Africa, chased silverware from the East. Cicero sat on a high-backed couch covered in ivory silk while I stood apart, near to one of the doors, which opened on to a terrace lined with busts of great men from antiquity. Beyond the terrace a gardener pushed a wheelbarrow piled with dead leaves. I could smell the fragrance of a bonfire somewhere, out of sight. It was a scene of such settled order and civilisation – such an oasis in the wilderness of all our terrors – that I have never forgotten it. Presently there was a little patter of footsteps and Pompey's wife appeared, accompanied by her maids, all of whom were older than her. She looked like a doll in her dark ringlets and simple green dress. She had a scarf round her neck. Cicero stood and kissed her hand.
'I am very sorry,' said Julia, 'but my husband has been called away.' She blushed and glanced at the door. She was obviously not accustomed to lying.
Cicero's face sagged slightly, but then he rallied. 'That does not matter,' he said. 'I shall wait.'
Julia looked anxiously at the door again, and I had a sudden instinct that Pompey was just beyond it, signalling to her what she should do. She said, 'I am not sure how long he is going to be.'
'I am confident he will come,' said Cicero loudly, for the benefit of any eavesdroppers. 'Pompey the Great cannot be seen to go back on his word.' He sat, and after some hesitation she did the same, folding her small white hands neatly in her lap.
Eventually she said, 'Was your journey comfortable?'
'Very pleasant, thank you.'
There was another long silence. Cicero put his hand in the pocket of his tunic, where his little knife was. I could see that he was turning it round in his fingers.
Julia said, 'Have you seen my father recently?'
'No. I have not been well.'
'Oh? I am sorry to hear that. I have not seen him for a while either. He will be leaving for Gaul any day. Then I really don't know when I shall see him again. I am lucky I won't be left on my own. It was horrid when he was in Spain.'
'And is married life suiting you?'
'Oh, it is wonderful!' she exclaimed, with genuine delight. 'We stay here all the time. We never go anywhere. It is a world of our own.'
'That must be pleasant. How charming that is. A carefree existence. I envy you.' There was a slight crack in Cicero's voice. He withdrew his hand from his pocket and raised it to his forehead. He looked down at the carpet. His body began to shake slightly, and I realised to my horror that he was weeping. Julia stood up quickly. 'It's nothing,' he said. 'Really. This damned illness …'
Julia hesitated, then reached over and touched his shoulder. She said softly, 'I shall tell him again that you are here.'
She left the room with her maids. After she had gone, Cicero sighed, wiped his nose on his sleeve and stared ahead. The aromatic smoke of the bonfire drifted over the terrace. Time passed. The light began to fade, and Cicero's face, emaciated by his long period of fasting, filled with shadows. Eventually I whispered in his ear that if we did not leave soon, we would never reach Rome by nightfall. He nodded, and I helped him to his feet.
As we drove away from the villa I glanced back, and to this day I am sure I saw the pale full moon of Pompey's face staring down at us from an upper window.
Once news of Pompey's betrayal became known, Cicero was seen to be finished, and I discreetly started packing in anticipation of a rapid exit from Rome. That is not to say that everyone shunned him. Hundreds donned mourning to show their solidarity, and the senate voted narrowly to dress in black to show their sympathy. A great demonstration of knights from all over Italy was organised on the Capitol by Aelius Lamia, and a delegation led by Hortensius went to call on the consuls to urge them to defend Cicero. But Piso and Gabinius both refused. They knew that Clodius had it in his power to determine which, if any, province they would receive, and they were anxious to show him their support. They actually forbade the senate to put on mourning and expelled the gallant Lamia from the city on the grounds that he threatened civic peace.
Whenever Cicero tried to venture out, he swiftly found himself surrounded by a jeering mob, and despite the protection organised by Atticus and the Sextus brothers, the experience was unpleasant and dangerous. Clodius's followers threw stones and excrement at him, forcing him to retreat indoors to shake the filth out of his hair and tunic. He sought out the consul, Piso, and eventually found him in a tavern, where he pleaded with him to intercede, to no avail. After that he stayed at home. But even here there was little respite. During the day, demonstrators would gather in the forum and chant slogans at the house, calling Cicero a murderer. Our nights were endlessly disturbed by the echo of running feet in the street, shouted insults, and the rattle of missiles on the roof. At a huge public meeting called by the tribunes outside the city, Caesar was asked his opinion of Clodius's bill. He declared that while he had opposed the execution of the conspirators, he also disapproved of retrospective legislation. It was an answer of great political dexterity: Cicero, when told of it, could only nod in rueful admiration. From that point on he knew he had no hope, and although he did not actually retire to his bed again, a great lethargy took hold of him, and often he refused to see his visitors.
There was one important exception, however. On the day before Clodius's bill was due to become law, Crassus came to call, and to my surprise Cicero agreed to receive him. I suppose he was in such a hopeless state by then, he was willing to take help
from whatever quarter it was offered. The villain came in full of concerned words. Yet all the time he spoke of his shock at what had happened and of his disgust at Pompey's disloyalty, his eyes were flickering around the bare walls and checking what fixtures were left. 'If there is anything I can do,' he said, 'anything at all …'
'I don't think there is much, thank you,' said Cicero, who plainly regretted ever letting his old enemy through the door. 'We both know how politics is played. Sooner or later failure comes to us all. At least,' he added, 'my conscience is clear. Really, don't let me detain you any longer.'
'What about money? A poor substitute, I know, for the loss of all one holds dear in life, but money would be useful in exile, and I would be willing to advance you a considerable sum.'
'That is very thoughtful of you.'
'I could give you, say, two million. Would that be of any help?'
'Naturally it would. But if I am in exile, what hope would I have of ever paying you back?'
Crassus looked around as if searching for a solution. 'You could give me the deeds to this house, I suppose.'
Cicero stared at him in disbelief. 'You want this house, for which I paid you three and a half million?'
'And a great bargain it was. You can't dispute that.'
'Well then, all the more reason for me not to sell it back to you for two million.'
'I fear property is only worth what someone is willing to pay for it, and this house will be valueless the day after tomorrow.'
'Why do you say that?'
'Because Clodius intends to burn it down and build a shrine to the goddess Liberty, and neither you nor anyone else will be able to lift a finger to stop him.'
Cicero paused, and then said quietly, 'Who told you that?'
'I make it my business to know these things.'
'And why would you want to pay two million sesterces for a patch of scorched earth containing a shrine to Liberty?'
'That is the kind of risk one has to take in business.'
'Goodbye, Crassus.'
'Think it over, Cicero. Don't be a stubborn fool. It's two million or nothing.'
'I said goodbye, Crassus.'
'All right, two and a half million?' Cicero did not respond. Crassus shook his head. 'That,' he said, rising to his feet, 'is exactly the sort of arrogant folly that has brought you to this pass. I shall warm my hands at your fire.'
On the next day, a meeting of Cicero's principal supporters was called to decide what he should do. It was to be held in the library, and I had to scour the house for chairs so that everyone should have a place to sit. I put out twenty. Atticus arrived first, then Cato, followed by Lucullus and, after a long interval, Hortensius. They all had to endure a hard passage through the mob that had occupied the neighbouring streets, especially Hortensius, who was roughed up quite badly, his face scratched, his toga splattered with shit. It was unnerving to see a man normally immaculate in his appearance so shaken and despoiled. We waited to see if anyone else would come, but nobody did. Tullia had already left Rome with her husband for the safety of the country, after an emotional scene with Cicero, so the only member of the family present was Terentia. I took notes.
If Cicero was dismayed that the vast crowds he had once commanded had dwindled to this small band, he did not show it. 'On this bitter day,' he said, 'I wish to thank all of you who have so bravely struggled to support my cause. Adversity is a part of life – not one I necessarily recommend, you understand' – my notes record laughter – 'but still: at least it shows us men's true natures, and just as I have shown my weakness, so I have seen your strength.' He stopped, and cleared his throat. I thought he was going to break down again. But this time he carried on. 'So the law will take effect at midnight? There is no doubt of that, I take it?' He glanced around. All four shook their head.
'No,' said Hortensius, 'none whatever.'
'Then what options are open to me?'
'It seems to me you have three,' said Hortensius. 'You can ignore the law and remain in Rome, and hope your friends will continue to support you, although from tomorrow that will be even more dangerous than it is now. You can leave the city tonight, while it is still legal for people to help you, and hope to get out of Italy unmolested. Or you could go to Caesar and ask if his offer of a legateship still stands, and claim immunity.'
Cato said, 'He does have a fourth option, of course.'
'Yes?'
'He could kill himself.'
There was a profound silence, and then Cicero said, 'What would be the benefit of that?'
'From the stoic point of view, suicide has always been con sidered a logical act of defiance for a wise man. It is also your natural right to put an end to your anguish. And frankly, it would set an example of resistance to tyranny that would stand for all time.'
'Do you have a particular method in mind?'
'I do. In my opinion you should brick yourself into this house and starve yourself to death.'
'I disagree,' said Lucullus. 'If it's martyrdom you seek, Cicero, why bother to do the deed yourself? Why not stay in the city and dare your enemies to do their worst? You have a chance of surviving. And if you don't, at least the opprobrium of murder falls on them.'
'Being murdered requires no courage,' retorted Cato with contempt, 'whereas suicide is a manly, conscious act.'
'And what is your own advice, Hortensius?' asked Cicero.
'Leave the city,' he replied at once. 'Keep yourself alive.' He touched his fingertips briefly to his forehead and felt along the rusty line of dried blood. 'I went to see Piso today. Privately he has some sympathy for the way you have been treated. Allow us the time to work for the repeal of Clodius's law while you are in voluntary exile. I am certain you will come back in triumph one day.'
'Atticus?'
'You know my view,' said Atticus. 'You would have saved yourself a lot of trouble if you had accepted Caesar's offer in the first place.'
'And Terentia? What do you say, my dear?'
She had put on mourning, like her husband, and in her black weeds, with her deathly pale face, she had become our Electra. She spoke with great force. 'Our present existence is intolerable. Voluntary exile smacks to me of cowardice. And try explaining suicide to your six-year-old son. You have no choice. Go to Caesar.'
It was late afternoon – a red sun dipping behind the bare trees, a warm spring breeze carrying the incongruous chant of 'Death to the tyrant!' from the forum. The other senators with their attendants left by the front door, serving as decoys to draw the attention of the the mob, while Cicero and I crept out through the back. Cicero had a tattered old brown blanket draped over his head and looked exactly like a beggar. We hurried down the Caci Steps to the Etruscan Road, and then joined the crowds heading out of the city through the river gate. Nobody molested us, or even gave us a second glance.
I had sent a slave ahead with a message for Caesar that Cicero wished to see him, and one of his officers in a red-plumed helmet was waiting for us at the gate. He was very much taken aback by Cicero's appearance, but managed to recover sufficiently to give him a kind of half-salute, and then escorted us out to the Field of Mars. Here a huge tented city had been pitched to accommodate Caesar's newly mustered Gallic legions, and as we passed through it I noticed everywhere signs that the army was striking camp and preparing to depart: waste pits were being filled in, earth ramparts levelled, wagons loaded with supplies. The officer told Cicero that their orders were to begin marching north before dawn the next day. He led us to a tent much larger than the others and set apart on slightly higher ground, with a legionary eagle planted beside it. He asked us to wait, and then lifted the flap and went inside, leaving Cicero, bearded, and in his old tunic with his blanket draped around his shoulders, to gaze around the camp.
'This is how it always seems to be with Caesar,' I remarked, trying to lighten the silence. 'He likes to keep his visitors waiting.'
'We had better get used to it,' replied Cicero in a grim voice. 'Look at that,'
he said, nodding beyond the camp towards the river. Rising from the plain in the dusty light was a great rickety edifice of scaffolding. 'That must be the Pharaoh's theatre.' He contemplated it for a long time, chewing the inside of his lip.
Eventually the flap parted again and we were shown into the tent. The interior was Spartan. A thin straw mattress lay on the ground, with a blanket thrown across it; near to it was a wooden chest on which stood a mirror, a set of hairbrushes, a jug of water and a basin, together with a miniature portrait of a woman in a gold frame (I am almost certain it was Servilia, but I was not close enough to be sure). At a folding table piled with documents sat Caesar. He was signing something. Two secretaries stood motionless behind him. He finished what he was doing, looked up, rose, and advanced towards Cicero with his hand outstretched. It was the first time I had seen him in military uniform. It fitted him as naturally as his skin, and I realised that in all the years I had observed him I had never actually seen him in the arena for which he was best suited. That was a sobering thought.
'My dear Cicero,' he said, examining his visitor's appearance, 'it truly grieves me to see you reduced to this condition.' With Pompey there was always hugging and back-slapping, but Caesar did not go in for that kind of thing. After the briefest of handshakes he gestured to Cicero to sit. 'How can I help?'
'I have come to accept the position of your legate,' replied Cicero, perching himself on the edge of the chair, 'if the offer still stands.'
'Have you indeed!' Caesar's mouth turned down. 'I must say you have left it very late.'
'I admit I would have preferred not to have come to you in these circumstances.'