Dictator

XI

And so the prophecy of the Rhodian oarsman came true, and the following day we fled from Dyrrachium. The granaries had been ransacked and I remember how the precious corn was strewn across the streets and crunched beneath our shoes. The lictors had to clear a passage for Cicero, striking out with their rods to get him through the panicking crowds. But when we reached the dockside, we found it even more impassable than the streets. It seemed that every captain of a seaworthy craft was being besieged by offers of money to carry people to safety. I saw the most pitiful scenes – families with all the belongings they could carry, including their dogs and parrots, attempting to force their way on to ships; matrons wrenching the rings from their fingers and offering their most precious family heirlooms for a place in a humble rowing boat; the white doll-like corpse of a baby dropped from the gangplank by its mother in a fumble of terror and drowned.

The harbour was so clogged with vessels it took hours for the tender to pick us up and ferry us out to our warship. By then it was growing dark. The big Rhodian quinquereme had gone: Rhodes, as Cicero had predicted, had deserted the Senate’s cause. Cato came aboard, followed by the other leaders, and immediately we slipped anchor – the captain preferring the dangers of a night-time voyage to the risks of remaining where we were. When we had gone a mile or two we looked back and saw an immense red glow in the sky; afterwards we learnt that the mutinying soldiers had set all the ships in the harbour on fire so that they could not be forced to sail to Corcyra and continue to fight.

We rowed on throughout the night. The smooth sea and the rocky coastline were silvered in the moonlight. The only sounds were the splash of the oars and the murmur of men’s voices in the darkness. Cicero spent a long time talking alone with Cato. Later he told me that Cato was not merely calm, he was serene. ‘This is what a lifetime’s devotion to stoicism can do for you. As far as he’s concerned, he has followed his conscience and is at peace; he is fully resigned to death. He is as dangerous in his way as Caesar and Pompey.’

I asked him what he meant. He took his time replying.

‘Do you remember what I wrote in my little work on politics? How long ago that seems! “Just as the purpose of a pilot is to ensure a smooth passage for his ship, and of a doctor to make his patient healthy, so the statesman’s objective must be the happiness of his country.” Not once has either Caesar or Pompey conceived of their role in that way. For them, it is all a matter of their personal glory. And so it is with Cato. I tell you, the man is actually quite content simply to have been right, even though this is where his principles have led us – to this fragile vessel drifting alone in the moonlight along a foreign shore.’

He was utterly disillusioned with it all – recklessly so, in truth. When we reached Corcyra, we found that beautiful island crowded with refugees from the carnage of Pharsalus. The tales of chaos and incompetence were appalling. Of Pompey, there was no word. If he was alive, he sent no message; if he was dead, no one had seen his body: he had vanished from the earth. In the absence of the commander-in-chief, Cato called a meeting of the Senate in the Temple of Zeus, on its promontory overlooking the sea, to decide the future conduct of the war. That once-numerous assembly was now reduced to about fifty men. Cicero had hoped to be reunited with his son and brother, but they were nowhere to be found. Instead he saw other survivors – Metellus Scipio, Afranius and young Gnaeus, the son of Pompey, who had convinced himself that his father’s ruin was entirely the result of treachery. I noticed how he kept glaring at Cicero; I feared he could be dangerous. Cassius was also present. But Ahenobarbus was not – it turned out that he was one of the many senators who had been killed in the battle. Outside, it was hot and dazzling; inside, cool and shadowy. A statue of Zeus, twice the size of a man, looked down with indifference upon the deliberations of these beaten mortals.

Cato began by stating that in Pompey’s absence the Senate needed to appoint a new commander-in-chief. ‘It should go, according to our ancient custom, to the most senior ex-consul among us, and therefore I propose it should be Cicero.’

Cicero burst out laughing. All heads turned to look at him.

‘Seriously, gentlemen?’ responded Cicero with incredulity. ‘Seriously – after all that has occurred, you think that I should assume direction of this catastrophe? If it was my leadership you wanted, you should have listened to my counsel earlier, and then we would not be in our present desperate straits. I refuse this honour absolutely.’

It was unwise for him to have spoken so harshly. He was exhausted and overwrought, but then so were they all, and some were also wounded. The cries of protest and disgust were eventually stilled by Cato, who said, ‘I take it from what Cicero says that he regards our position as hopeless, and that he would sue for peace.’

Cicero said, ‘I would, most certainly. Haven’t enough good men died to satisfy your philosophy?’

Scipio said, ‘We have suffered a reverse but we are not defeated. There are still allies loyal to us all over the world, especially King Juba in Africa.’

‘So that is what we have sunk to, is it? Fighting alongside Numidian barbarians against our fellow Romans?’

‘Nevertheless, we still have seven eagles.’

‘Seven eagles would be fine if we were fighting jackdaws.’

‘What do you know of fighting,’ demanded Gnaeus Pompey, ‘you contemptible old coward?’ And with that he drew his sword and lunged at Cicero. I was sure that Cicero was about to die, but with the skill of an expert swordsman Gnaeus checked his thrust at the last moment and left the tip of his blade touching Cicero’s throat. ‘I propose we kill this traitor, and I ask the Senate’s permission to do the deed this instant.’ And he pressed just a fraction harder so that Cicero had to tilt his head right back to avoid having his windpipe pierced.

‘Stop, Gnaeus!’ cried Cato. ‘You will bring shame on your father! Cicero is a friend of his – he wouldn’t want to see him insulted in this way. Remember where you are and put your sword down.’

I doubt whether anyone else could have stopped Gnaeus when his blood was up. For a moment or two the young brute hesitated, but then he withdrew his sword, and swore and stamped back to his place. Cicero straightened and stared directly ahead. A trickle of blood ran down his neck and stained the front of his toga.

Cato said, ‘Listen to me, gentlemen. You know my views. When our republic was under threat, I believed it was our right and duty to compel every citizen, the lukewarm and the bad included, to support our cause and protect the state. But now the republic is lost …’ He paused and looked around; no one challenged his assertion. ‘Now that our republic is lost,’ he repeated quietly, ‘even I believe it would be senseless and cruel to compel any individual to share in its ruin. Let those who wish to continue the fight remain here, and we shall discuss our future strategy. Let those who wish to retire from the struggle depart from this assembly now – and let no man do them harm.’

At first no one moved. And then very slowly Cicero rose to his feet. He nodded to Cato, whom he knew had saved his life, and then turned and walked out – out of the temple, out of the senatorial cause, out of the war and out of public life.

Cicero feared that if he stayed on the island he would be murdered – if not by Gnaeus then by one of his associates. Accordingly we left that same day. We could not sail back north again in case the coast had fallen into enemy hands. Instead we found ourselves drifting further south, until after several days we arrived in Patrae, the port where I had spent my illness. As soon as the ship docked, Cicero sent word by one of his lictors to his friend Curius to say that we were in the city, and without waiting for a reply, we hired litters and porters to transport us and our baggage to his house.

I believe the lictor must have lost his way, or perhaps he was tempted by the bars of Patrae, for all six lictors in their boredom since our departure from Cilicia had fallen into the habit of drinking heavily. At any rate, we arrived at the villa before our messenger did, only to be told that Curius was away for two days on business, at which point we heard male conversation emanating from the interior. The voices sounded familiar. We glanced at one another, neither of us quite believing what we were hearing, then hurried past the steward and into the tablinum to discover Quintus, Marcus and Quintus Junior seated in a huddle. They turned to stare at us in amazement, and I sensed at once a certain embarrassment. I am fairly certain they must have been speaking ill of us – or rather of Cicero. This awkwardness, I should add, was over in an instant – Cicero never even noticed it – and we fell upon one another and kissed and embraced with the sincerest affection. I was shocked by how haggard they looked. There was something haunted about them, as there had been with the other survivors of Pharsalus, although they tried not to show it.

Quintus said, ‘This is the most wonderful good fortune! We’d engaged a ship and were planning to set off for Corcyra tomorrow, having heard that the Senate was assembling there. And to think we might have missed you! What happened? Did the conference end earlier than expected?’

Cicero said, ‘No, the conference is still going on, as far as I know.’

‘But you’re not with them?’

‘Let us discuss that later. First let us hear what happened to you.’

They took it in turns to tell their story, like runners in a relay race handing on the baton – first the month-long march in pursuit of Caesar’s army and the occasional skirmishes along the way, and then at last the great confrontation at Pharsalus. On the eve of the battle Pompey had dreamed that he was in Rome entering the Temple of Venus the Victorious, and that the people were applauding him as he offered the goddess the spoils of war. He awoke content, thinking this a good omen, but then someone pointed out that Caesar claimed direct descent from Venus, and immediately he decided the meaning of the dream was the opposite of what he’d hoped. ‘From that moment on,’ said Quintus, ‘he seemed resigned to losing and acted accordingly.’ The Quinti had been in the second line and so had avoided the worst of the fighting. Marcus, though, had been in the middle of the struggle. He reckoned he had killed at least four of the enemy – one with his javelin, three with his sword – and had been confident of victory until the cohorts of Caesar’s Tenth Legion had seemed to rise up out of the ground before them. ‘Our units lost formation: it was massacre, Father.’ It had taken them the best part of a month, much of it spent living rough and dodging Caesar’s patrols, to escape to the western coast.

‘And Pompey?’ asked Cicero. ‘Is there news of him?’

‘None,’ replied Quintus, ‘but I believe I can guess where he went: east, to Lesbos. That’s where he sent Cornelia to await news of his victory. In defeat I’m certain he would have gone to her for consolation – you know what he’s like with his wives. Caesar must have guessed the same. He’s after him like a bounty hunter in pursuit of a runaway slave. My money is on Caesar in that particular race. And if he catches him, or kills him, what do you think that will that mean for the war?’

Cicero said, ‘Oh, the war will go on, it seems, whatever happens – but it will continue without me,’ and then he told them what had happened at Corcyra. I am sure he did not mean to sound flippant. It was simply that he was happy to have found his family alive, and naturally that light-hearted mood coloured his remarks. But as he repeated, with some satisfaction, his quip about eagles and jackdaws, and mocked the very idea that he should take command of “this losing cause”, and derided the bone-headedness of Gnaeus Pompey – ‘He makes even his father look intelligent’ – I could see Quintus’s jaw beginning to work back and forth in irritation; even Marcus’s expression was clenched with disapproval.

‘So that’s it, then?’ said Quintus in a cold, flat voice. ‘As far as this family is concerned, it’s over?’

‘Do you disagree?’

‘I feel I should have been consulted.’

‘How could I consult you? You weren’t there.’

‘No, I wasn’t. How could I have been? I was fighting in the war you encouraged me to join, and then I was trying to save my life, along with those of your son and your nephew!’

Too late Cicero saw how casually he had spoken. ‘My dear brother, I assure you, your welfare – the welfare of all of you – has ever been uppermost in my mind.’

‘Spare me your casuistry, Marcus. Nothing is ever uppermost in your mind except yourself. Your honour, your career, your interests – so that while other men go off to die, you sit behind with the elderly and the womenfolk, polishing your speeches and your pointless witticisms!’

‘Please, Quintus – you are in danger of saying things you will regret.’

‘My only regret is that I didn’t say them years ago. So let me say them now, and you will do me the courtesy of sitting there and listening to me for once! My whole life has been lived as nothing more than an appendix to yours – I am no more important to you than poor Tiro here, whose health has been broken in your service; less important, actually, as I don’t have his skills as a note-taker. When I went out to Asia as governor, you tricked me into staying for two years rather than one, so that you could have access to my funds to pay off your debts. During your exile I almost died fighting Clodius in the streets of Rome, and my reward when you came home was to be packed off again, to Sardinia, to appease Pompey. And now here I am, thanks largely to you, on the losing side in a civil war, when it would have been perfectly honourable for me to have stood side by side with Caesar, who gave me command of a legion in Gaul …’

There was more in this vein. Cicero endured it without comment or movement, apart from the occasional clenching and unclenching of his hands on the armrests of his chair. Marcus looked on, white with shock. Young Quintus smirked and nodded. As for me, I yearned to leave but couldn’t: some force seemed to have pinned my feet to the spot.

Quintus worked himself up into such a pitch of fury that by the end he was breathless, his chest heaving as if he had shifted some heavy physical load. ‘Your action in abandoning the Senate’s cause without consulting me or considering my interests is the final selfish blow. Remember, my position wasn’t exquisitely ambiguous like yours: I fought at Pharsalus – I am a marked man. So I have no choice: I shall have to try to find Caesar, wherever he is, and plead for his pardon, and believe me, when I see him, I shall have something to tell him about you.’

With that he stalked out of the room, followed by his son; and then, after a short hesitation, Marcus left too. In the shocking silence that ensued, Cicero continued to sit immobile. Eventually I asked if there was anything I could fetch him, and when still he made no response, I wondered if he might have suffered a seizure. Then I heard footsteps. It was Marcus returning. He knelt beside the chair.

‘I have said goodbye to them, Father. I will stay with you.’

Wordless for once, Cicero grasped his hand, and I withdrew to let them talk.

Cicero took to his bed and remained in his room for the next few days. He refused to see a doctor – ‘My heart is broken and no Greek quack can fix that’ – and kept his door locked. I hoped that Quintus would return and the quarrel might be repaired, but he had meant what he said and had left the city. When Curius got back from his business trip, I explained what had happened as discreetly as I could, and he agreed with me and Marcus that the best course was for us to charter a ship and sail back to Italy while the weather was still fair. Such, then, was the grotesque paradox we had reached: that Cicero was likely to be safer in a country under Caesar’s control than he would be in Greece, where armed bands belonging to the republican cause were only too eager to strike down men perceived as traitors.

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 south-easterly 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?’

‘I don’t think she’s fully decided yet. But I believe she’s taking precautions in case it comes to that and you no longer have the means of repaying her yourself.’ She leaned across the table and grasped his hand. ‘Try not to be too angry with her, Father. Money is her only means of independence. She still has very strong feelings for you, I know it.’

Cicero, unable to control his emotions, left the table and went out into the garden.

Of all the disasters and betrayals that had struck him over recent years, this was the worst. It completed the collapse of his fortunes. He was numbed by it. What made it harder was that Tullia begged him to say nothing about it until such time as he could confront Terentia face to face, otherwise her mother would know it was she who was his informant. The notion of a meeting seemed a remote prospect. And then, out of the blue, just as the heat of the summer was starting to become uncomfortable, a letter arrived from Caesar.

Caesar Dictator to Cicero Imperator.

I have received various messages from your brother complaining of dishonesty on your part towards me and insisting that but for your influence he would never have taken up arms against me. I have sent these letters to Balbus to pass on to you. You may do with them as you wish. I have pardoned him, and his son. They may live where they please. But I have no desire to renew relations with him. His behaviour towards you confirms a certain low opinion I had begun to form of him in Gaul.

I am travelling ahead of my army and will return to Italy earlier than expected next month, landing at Tarentum, when I hope it will be possible for us to meet to settle matters regarding your own future once and for all.

Tullia was greatly excited when she read this: she called it ‘a handsome letter’. But Cicero was secretly thrown into confusion. He had hoped he would be allowed to make his way back quietly to Rome, without fuss. He viewed the prospect of actually meeting Caesar with dread. The Dictator would doubtless be friendly enough, even if the gang around him were rough and insolent. However, no amount of politeness could disguise the basic truth: that he would be begging for his life from a conqueror who had usurped the constitution. Meanwhile fresh reports were coming in almost every day from Africa, where Cato was raising a huge new army to continue to uphold the republican cause.

He put on a cheerful face for Tullia’s sake, only to collapse into agonies of conscience once she had gone to bed. ‘You know that I have always tried to steer the right course by asking myself how history would judge my actions. Well, in this instance I can be certain of the verdict. History will say that Cicero wasn’t with Cato and the good cause because in the end Cicero was a coward. Oh, I have made such a mess of it all, Tiro! I actually believe Terentia is quite right to salvage what she can from the wreckage and divorce me.’

Soon afterwards Vatinius brought the news that Caesar had landed at Tarentum and wished to see Cicero the day after tomorrow.

Cicero said, ‘Where exactly are we to go?’

‘He is staying in Pompey’s old villa by the sea. Do you know it?’

Cicero nodded. No doubt he was recalling his last visit, when he and Pompey had skimmed stones across the waves. ‘I know it.’

Vatinius insisted on providing a military escort, even though Cicero said that he would prefer to travel without ostentation: ‘No, I’m afraid that’s out of the question: the countryside is too dangerous. I hope we will meet again soon in happier circumstances. Good luck with Caesar. You will find him gracious, I’m sure.’

Afterwards, as I was showing him out, Vatinius said, ‘He doesn’t seem very happy.’

‘He feels his humiliation keenly. The fact that he will have to bow the knee in his old chief’s former home will only add to his discomfort.’

‘I might let Caesar know that.’

We set off the next morning – ten cavalrymen in the vanguard, followed by the six lictors; Cicero, Tullia and me in a carriage; Marcus on horseback; a baggage train of pack mules and servants; and finally another ten cavalry bringing up the rear. The Calabrian plain was flat and dusty. We saw almost no one apart from the occasional shepherd or olive farmer, and I realised that of course our escort wasn’t for our protection at all, but to make sure Cicero didn’t escape. We stayed overnight at a house reserved for us in Uria and continued the following day until around the middle of the afternoon, when we were only two or three miles from Tarentum, and then we saw a long column of horsemen in the distance, coming towards us.

In the rising heat and dust they seemed mere watery apparitions. It wasn’t until they were only a few hundred paces away that I recognised by the red crests on their helmets and the standards in their midst that they were soldiers. Our column halted, and the officer in charge dismounted and hurried back to tell Cicero that the oncoming cavalry was carrying Caesar’s personal standard. They were his praetorian guard and the Dictator was with them.

Cicero said, ‘Dear gods, is he planning to have me done in by the roadside, do you suppose?’ Then, seeing Tullia’s horrified expression, he added, ‘That was a joke, child. If he’d wanted me dead it would have happened long ago. Well, let’s get it over with. You’d better come, Tiro. It will make a scene in your book.’

He clambered out of the carriage and called to Marcus to join us.

Caesar’s column had drawn up about a hundred paces away and deployed across the road as if for battle. It was huge: there must have been four or five hundred men. We walked towards them. Cicero was between Marcus and me. At first I couldn’t make out which of them was Caesar. But then a tall man swung himself out of his saddle, took off his helmet and gave it to an aide, and began to advance towards us, stroking his thin hair flat across his head.

How unreal it felt to watch the approach of this titan who had so dominated everyone’s thoughts for so many years – who had conquered countries and upended lives and sent thousands of soldiers marching hither and thither and had smashed the ancient republic to fragments as if it were nothing more substantial than a chipped antique vase that had gone out of fashion – to watch him, and to find him, in the end … just an ordinary breathing mortal! He walked in short strides with great rapidity – there was something curiously birdlike about him, I always thought: that narrow avian skull, those glittering watchful dark eyes. He stopped just in front of us. We stopped too. I was close enough to see the red indentations that his helmet had made in his surprisingly soft pale skin.

He looked Cicero up and down and said in his rasping voice, ‘Entirely unscathed, I am glad to see – exactly as I would have expected! I have a bone to pick with you,’ he said, jabbing a finger at me, and for a moment I felt my insides turn to liquid. ‘You assured me ten years ago that your master was at death’s door. I told you then he would outlive me.’

Cicero said, ‘I’m glad to hear of your prediction, Caesar, if only because you are the one man in a position to make sure it comes true.’

Caesar threw back his head and laughed. ‘Ah yes, I’ve missed you! Now look here – do you see how I’ve come out of the town to meet you, to show you my respect? Let’s walk in the direction you’re headed and talk a little.’

And so they strolled on together for perhaps half a mile towards Tarentum, Caesar’s troops parting to allow them through. A few bodyguards walked behind them, one leading Caesar’s horse. Marcus and I followed. I could not hear what was said, but observed that Caesar occasionally took Cicero’s arm while gesturing with his other hand. Afterwards Cicero said that their conversation was friendly enough, and he roughly summarised it for me as follows:

Caesar: ‘So what is it you would like to do?’

Cicero: ‘To return to Rome, if you’ll permit it.’

Caesar: ‘And can you promise you will cause me no trouble?’

Cicero: ‘I swear it.’

Caesar: ‘What will you do there? I’m not sure I want you making speeches in the Senate, and the law courts are all closed.’

Cicero: ‘Oh, I’m finished in politics, I know that. I shall retire from public life.’

Caesar: ‘And do what?’

Cicero: ‘I thought I might write philosophy.’

Caesar: ‘Excellent. I approve of statesmen who write philosophy. It means they have given up all hope of power. You may go to Rome. Will you teach the subject as well as write it? If so, I might send you a couple of my more promising men for instruction.’

Cicero: ‘Aren’t you worried I might corrupt them?’

Caesar: ‘Nothing worries me when it comes to you. Do you have any other favours to ask?’

Cicero: ‘Well, I would like to be relieved of these lictors.’

Caesar: ‘It’s done.’

Cicero: ‘Doesn’t it require a vote of the Senate?’

Caesar: ‘I am the vote of the Senate.’

Cicero: ‘Ah! So I take it you have no intention of restoring the republic …?’

Caesar: ‘One cannot rebuild using rotten timber.’

Cicero: ‘Tell me – did you always aim at this outcome: a dictatorship?’

Caesar: ‘Never! I sought only the respect due to my rank and achievements. For the rest, one merely adapts to circumstances as they arise.’

Cicero: ‘I wonder sometimes, if I had come out to Gaul as your legate – as you were kind enough once to suggest – whether all of this might have been averted.’

Caesar: ‘That, my dear Cicero, we shall never know.’

‘He was perfectly amiable,’ recalled Cicero. ‘He allowed no glimpse of those monstrous depths. I saw only the calm and glittering surface.’

At the end of their talk, Caesar shook Cicero’s hand. Then he mounted his horse and galloped away in the direction of Pompey’s villa. His action took his praetorian guard by surprise. They set off quickly after him, and the rest of us, Cicero included, had to scramble into the ditch to avoid being trampled.

Their hooves threw up the most tremendous cloud of dust. We choked and coughed, and when they had thundered past, we climbed back up on to the road to clean ourselves off. For a while we stood watching until Caesar and his followers had dissolved into the haze of heat, and then we began our journey back to Rome.