Dictator

XV

He was finished with politics, he said. He was finished with Italy. He would go to Greece. He would stay with his son in Athens. He would write philosophy.

We packed up most of the books he needed from his libraries in Rome and Tusculum and set off with a large entourage, including two secretaries, a chef, a doctor and six bodyguards. The weather had been unseasonably cold and wet ever since the assassination, which of course was taken as yet another sign of the gods’ displeasure at Caesar’s murder. My strongest memory of those days spent travelling is of Cicero in his carriage composing philosophy with a blanket over his knees while the rain drummed continuously on the thin wooden roof. We stayed one night with Matius Calvena, the equestrian, who was in despair over the future of the nation: ‘If a man of Caesar’s genius could find no way out, who will find one now?’ But apart from him, in contrast to the scenes in Rome, we found no one who was not glad to see the back of the Dictator. ‘Unfortunately,’ as Cicero observed, ‘none of them has control of a legion.’

He sought refuge in his work, and by the time we reached Puteoli on the Ides of April, he had completed one entire book – On Auguries – half of another – On Fate – and had begun a third – On Glory – three examples of his genius that will live for as long as men are still capable of reading. And no sooner had he got out of his carriage and stretched his legs along the seashore than he began sketching the outline of a fourth, On Friendship (With the single exception of wisdom, I am inclined to regard it as the greatest of all the gifts the gods have bestowed upon mankind), which he planned to dedicate to Atticus. The physical world might have become a hostile and dangerous place for him, but in his mind he lived in freedom and tranquillity.

Antony had dismissed the Senate until the first day of June, and gradually the great villas around the Bay of Naples began to fill with the leading men of Rome. Most of the new arrivals, like Hirtius and Pansa, were still in a state of shock at Caesar’s death. The pair were supposed to take over as consuls at the end of the year, and as part of their preparation they asked Cicero if he would give them further lessons in oratory. He didn’t much want to – it was a distraction from his writing, and he found their doleful talk about Caesar irritating – but in the end he was too easy-going to refuse. He took them on to the beach to learn elocution as Demosthenes had done, by speaking clearly through a mouth full of pebbles, and to learn voice projection by delivering their speeches into the crashing waves. Over the dinner table they were full of stories of Antony’s high-handedness: of how he had tricked Calpurnia on the night of the assassination into giving him custody of her late husband’s private papers as well as his fortune; of how he now pretended these documents contained various edicts that had the force of law, whereas in fact he had forged them in return for enormous bribes.

Cicero said, ‘So he has his hands on all the money? But I thought three quarters of Caesar’s fortune was supposed to go to this boy Octavian?’

Hirtius rolled his eyes. ‘He’ll be lucky!’

Pansa added, ‘He’ll have to come and get it first, and I wouldn’t give much for his chances.’

Two days after this exchange, I was sheltering from the rain in the portico, reading the elder Cato’s treatise on agriculture, when the steward came up to me to announce that L. Cornelius Balbus had arrived to see Cicero.

‘Then tell the master he’s here.’

‘But I’m not sure that I should – he gave me strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed, no matter who came to call.’

I sighed and laid aside my book: Balbus was one man who would have to be seen. He was the Spaniard who had handled Caesar’s business affairs in Rome. He was well known to Cicero, who had once defended him in the courts against an attempt to strip him of his citizenship. He was now in his middle fifties and owned a huge villa nearby. I found him waiting in the tablinum with a toga-clad youth I took at first to be his son or grandson, except when I looked more closely I saw that he couldn’t be, for Balbus was swarthy whereas this boy had damp blond hair badly cut in a basin style; he was also rather short and slender, pretty-faced but with a pasty complexion pitted by acne.

‘Ah, Tiro,’ cried Balbus, ‘will you kindly drag Cicero away from his books? Just tell him I have brought Caesar’s adopted son to see him – Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus – that ought to do it.’

And the young man smiled shyly at me, showing gapped uneven teeth.

Naturally Cicero came at once, overwhelmed by curiosity to meet this exotic creature, seemingly dropped into the tumult of Roman politics from the sky. Balbus introduced the young man, who bowed and said, ‘It is one of the greatest honours of my life to meet you. I have read all your speeches and works of philosophy. I have dreamed of this moment for years.’ His voice was pleasant: soft and well educated.

Cicero fairly preened at the compliment. ‘You are very kind to say it. Now please tell me, before we go further: what am I to call you?’

‘In public I insist on Caesar. To my friends and family I am Octavian.’

‘Well, since at my age I would find another Caesar hard to get used to, perhaps it could be Octavian for me as well, if I may?’

The young man bowed again. ‘I would be honoured.’

And so began two days of unexpectedly friendly exchanges. It turned out that Octavian was staying next door with his mother Atia and his stepfather Philippus, and he wandered back and forth quite freely between the two houses. Often he appeared on his own, even though he had brought an entourage of friends and soldiers over with him from Illyricum, and more had joined him at Naples. He and Cicero would talk in the villa or walk along the seashore together in the intervals between showers. Watching them, I was reminded of a line in Cicero’s treatise on old age: just as I approve of the young man in whom there is a touch of age, so I approve of the old man in whom there is some flavour of youth … Oddly enough, it was Octavian who sometimes seemed the older of the two: serious, polite, deferential, shrewd; it was Cicero who made the jokes and skimmed the stones across the sea. He told me that Octavian had no small talk. All he wanted was political advice. The fact that Cicero was publicly aligned with his adopted father’s killers appeared to be neither here nor there as far as he was concerned. How soon should he go to Rome? How should he handle Antony? What should he say to Caesar’s veterans, many of whom were hanging around the house? How was civil war to be avoided?

Cicero was impressed: ‘I can understand entirely what Caesar saw in him – he has a certain coolness rare in one of his years. He might make a great statesman one day, if only he can survive long enough.’ The men around him were a different matter. These included a couple of Caesar’s old army commanders, with the hard, dead eyes of professional killers; and some arrogant young companions, two in particular: Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, not yet twenty but already bloodied by war, taciturn and faintly menacing even in repose; and Gaius Cilnius Maecenas, a little older, effeminate, giggling, cynical. ‘Those,’ said Cicero, ‘I do not care for at all.’

On only one occasion did I have an opportunity to observe Octavian closely for any length of time. That was on the final day of his stay, when he came to dinner with his mother and stepfather, along with Agrippa and Maecenas; Cicero also invited Hirtius and Pansa; I made up the nine. I noticed how the young man never touched his wine, how quiet he was, how his pale grey eyes flicked from one speaker to another and how intently he listened, as if he was trying to commit everything they said to memory. Atia, who looked as if she might have been the model for a statue commemorating the ideal Roman matron, was far too proper to voice a political opinion in public. Philippus, however, who certainly did drink, became increasingly voluble, and towards the end of the evening announced, ‘Well if anyone wants to know my opinion, I think Octavian should renounce this inheritance.’

Maecenas whispered to me, ‘Does anyone want to know his opinion?’ and he bit on his napkin to stifle his laughter.

Octavian said mildly, ‘And what leads you to that opinion, Father?’

‘Well, if I may speak frankly, my boy, you can call yourself Caesar all you like but that doesn’t make you Caesar, and the closer you get to Rome the greater the danger will be. Do you really think Antony is just going to hand over all these millions? And why would Caesar’s veterans follow you rather than Antony, who commanded a wing at Pharsalus? Caesar’s name is just a target on your back. You’ll be killed before you’ve gone fifty miles.’

Hirtius and Pansa nodded in agreement.

Agrippa said quietly, ‘No, we can get him to Rome safely enough.’

Octavian turned to Cicero. ‘And what do you think?’

Cicero dabbed carefully at his mouth with his napkin before replying. ‘Just four months ago your adopted father was dining precisely where you are now and assuring me he had no fear of death. The truth is, all our lives hang by a thread. There is no safety anywhere, and no one can predict what will happen. When I was your age, I dreamed only of glory. What I wouldn’t have given to be in your place now!’

‘So you would go to Rome?’

‘I would.’

‘And do what?’

‘Stand for election.’

Philippus said, ‘But he’s only eighteen. He’s not even old enough to vote.’

Cicero continued: ‘As it happens, there’s a vacancy for a tribune: Cinna was killed by the mob at Caesar’s funeral – they got the wrong man, poor devil. You should propose yourself to fill his place.’

Octavian said, ‘But surely Antony would never allow it?’

Cicero replied, ‘That doesn’t matter. Such a move would show your determination to continue Caesar’s policy of championing the people: the plebs will love it. And when Antony opposes you – as he must – he’ll be seen as opposing them.’

Octavian nodded slowly. ‘That’s not a bad idea. Perhaps you should come with me?’

Cicero laughed. ‘No, I’m retiring to Greece to study philosophy.’

‘That’s a pity.’

After the dinner, when the guests were preparing to leave, I overheard Octavian say to Cicero, ‘I meant what I said. I would value your wisdom.’

Cicero shook his head. ‘I fear my loyalties lie in the other direction, with those who struck down your adopted father. But if ever there was a possibility of your reconciling with them – well then, in such circumstances, in the interests of the state, I would do all I could to help you.’

‘I’m not opposed to reconciliation. It’s my legacy I want, not vengeance.’

‘Can I tell them that?’

‘Of course. That’s why I said it. Goodbye. I shall write to you.’

They shook hands. Octavian stepped out into the road. It was a spring evening, not yet entirely dark, no longer raining either but with moisture still in the air. To my surprise, standing silently in the blue gloom across the street were more than a hundred soldiers. When they saw Octavian they set up the same din I had heard at Caesar’s funeral, banging their swords against their shields in acclamation: it turned out these were some of the Dictator’s veterans from the Gallic wars, settled nearby on Campanian land. Octavian went over with Agrippa to talk to them. Cicero watched for a moment, then ducked back inside to avoid being seen.

When the door was shut I asked, ‘Why did you urge him to go to Rome? Surely the last thing you want is to encourage another Caesar?’

‘If he goes to Rome he’ll cause problems for Antony. He’ll split their faction.’

‘And if his adventure succeeds?’

‘It won’t. Philippus is right. He’s a nice boy, and I hope he survives, but he’s no Caesar – you only have to look at him.’

Nevertheless, he was sufficiently intrigued by Octavian’s prospects to postpone his departure for Athens. Instead he conceived a vague idea of attending the Senate meeting Antony had summoned for the first of June. But when we arrived in Tusculum towards the end of May, everyone advised him not to go. Varro sent a letter warning that there would be murder. Hirtius agreed. He said, ‘Even I’m not going, and no one’s ever accused me of disloyalty to Caesar. But there are too many old soldiers in the streets too quick to draw their swords – look what happened to Cinna.’

Octavian, meanwhile, had arrived in the city unscathed and sent Cicero a letter:

From G. Julius Caesar Octavianus to M. Tullius Cicero, greetings.

I wanted you to know that yesterday Antony finally agreed to see me at his house: the one that used to be Pompey’s. He kept me waiting for more than an hour – a silly tactic that I believe shows his weakness rather than mine. I began by thanking him for looking after my adopted father’s property on my behalf, invited him to take from it whatever trinkets he desired as keepsakes, but asked him to hand over the rest to me at once. I told him I needed the money to make an immediate cash disbursement to three hundred thousand citizens in accordance with my father’s will. The rest of my expenses I asked to be met by a loan from the public treasury. I also told him of my intention to stand for the vacant tribunate and asked him for evidence of the various edicts he claims to have discovered in my father’s papers.

He replied with great indignation that Caesar had not been king and had not bequeathed me control of the state; that accordingly he did not have to give an account of his public acts to me; that as far as the money went, my father’s effects were not as great as all that, and that he had left the public treasury bankrupt so there was nothing to be got from there either; as for the tribunate, my candidacy would be illegal and was out of the question.

He thinks because I am young he can intimidate me. He is wrong. We parted on bad terms. Among the people, however, and among my father’s soldiers my reception has been as warm as Antony’s was cold.

Cicero was delighted at the enmity between Antony and Octavian and showed the letter to several people: ‘You see how the cub tweaks the old lion’s tail?’ He asked me to go to Rome on his behalf on the first of June and report back what happened in the Senate meeting.

I found Rome, as everyone had warned us, teeming with soldiers, mostly Caesar’s veterans whom Antony had summoned to the city to serve as his private army. They stood around on the street corners in sullen, hungry groups, intimidating anyone who looked as though they might be wealthy. As a result, the Senate was very thinly attended, and there was no one brave enough to oppose Antony’s most audacious proposal: that Decimus should be removed from the governorship of Nearer Gaul and that he, Antony, should be awarded both of the Gallic provinces, together with command of their legions, for the next five years – exactly the same concentration of power that had set Caesar on the road to the dictatorship. As if this were not enough, he also announced that he had summoned home the three legions based in Macedonia that Caesar had planned to use in the Parthian campaign and placed these under his own command as well. Dolabella did not object, as might have been expected, because he was to receive Syria, also for five years; Lepidus was bought off with Caesar’s old position of pontifex maximus. Finally, as this arrangement left Brutus and Cassius without their anticipated provinces, he arranged for them to be offered instead a couple of Pompey’s old corn commissionerships – one in Asia, the other in Sicily; they would have no power at all; it was a humiliation; so much for reconciliation.

The bills were approved by the half-empty Senate and Antony took them to the Forum the next day to be voted on by the people. The inclement weather continued. There was even a thunderstorm halfway through proceedings – such a terrible omen that the assembly should have been dismissed at once. But Antony was an augur: he claimed to have seen no lightning and ruled that the vote could go ahead, and by dusk he had what he wanted. There was no sign of Octavian. As I turned to leave the assembly I saw Fulvia watching from a litter. She was soaked from the rain but did not seem to notice, so engrossed was she in her husband’s apotheosis. I made a mental note to myself to warn Cicero that a woman who hitherto had been nothing more than a nuisance to him had just become a far more dangerous enemy.

The following morning I went to see Dolabella. He took me to the nursery and showed me Cicero’s grandson, the infant Lentulus, who had just learnt to take a few wobbling steps. It was now more than fifteen months since Tullia’s death, yet still Dolabella had not repaid her dowry. At Cicero’s request I began to broach the subject (‘Do it politely, mind you: I can’t afford to antagonise him’), but Dolabella cut me off at once.

‘It’s out of the question, I’m afraid. You can give him this instead in full and final settlement. It’s worth far more than money.’ And he threw across the table an imposing legal document with black ribbons and a red seal. ‘I’ve made him my legate in Syria. Don’t worry, tell him – he doesn’t have to do anything. But it means he can leave the country honourably and gives him immunity for the next five years. My advice, tell him, is that he should get out as soon as he can. Things are worsening by the day and we can’t be held responsible for his safety.’

I took the message back to Tusculum and relayed it verbatim to Cicero, who was sitting in the garden beside Tullia’s grave. He studied the warrant for his legateship. ‘So this little piece of paper has cost me a million sesterces? Does he really imagine that waving this in the face of some illiterate half-drunk legionary would deter him from sticking his sword in my throat?’ He had already heard what had happened at the Senate and in the public assembly, but wanted me to recite my precis of the speeches. At the end he said, ‘So there was no opposition?’

‘None.’

‘Did you see Octavian at all?’

‘No.’

‘No – of course not – why would you? Antony has the money, the legions and the consulship. Octavian has nothing but a borrowed name. As for us, we daren’t even show our faces in Rome.’ He slumped against the wall in despair. ‘I tell you something, Tiro, between you and me – I’m starting to wish the Ides of March had never happened.’

There was to be a family conference with Brutus and Cassius on the seventh day of June in Antium to decide their next steps: he had been invited and he asked me to accompany him.

We set off early, descending the hills just as the sun came up, and crossed the marshy land in the direction of the coast. The mist was rising. I remember the croaking of the bullfrogs, the cries of the gulls; Cicero barely spoke. Just before midday we reached Brutus’s villa. It was a fine old place built right on the shoreline with steps cut into the rocks leading down to the sea. The gate was blocked by a strong guard of gladiators; others patrolled the grounds; more were visible walking on the beach – I guess there must have been a hundred armed men in all. Brutus was waiting with the others in a loggia filled with Greek statuary. He looked strained – the familiar nervous tapping of his foot was more pronounced than ever. He told us he had not left the house for two months – amazing considering he was urban praetor and not supposed to be out of Rome for more than ten days a year. At the head of the table sat his mother, Servilia; also present were his wife Porcia and his sister Tertia, who was married to Cassius. Finally there was M. Favonius, the former praetor known as Cato’s Ape on account of his closeness to Brutus’s uncle. Tertia announced that Cassius was on his way.

Cicero suggested I might fill in the time while we waited by giving a detailed account of the recent debates in the Senate and the public assembly, whereupon Servilia, who had ignored me up to that point, turned her fierce eye upon me and said, ‘Oh, so this is your famous spy?’

She was a female Caesar – that is the best way I can describe her: quick-brained, handsome, haughty, bone-hard. The Dictator had presented her with lavish gifts, including estates confiscated from his enemies and huge jewels picked up on his conquests, yet when her son arranged his murder and she was given the news, her eyes stayed as dry as the gemstones he had given her. In this too she was like Caesar. Cicero was slightly awed by her.

I stammered my way through the transcript of my notes, all the while conscious of Servilia’s stare, and at the end she said with great contempt, ‘A grain commissionership in Asia! It was for this that Caesar was assassinated – so that my son could become a corn merchant?’

‘Even so,’ said Cicero, ‘I think he should take it. It’s better than nothing – certainly better than staying here.’

Brutus said, ‘I agree with you on your last point at least. I can’t stay hidden from view any longer. I’m losing respect with every day that passes. But Asia? No, what I really need to do is go to Rome and do what the urban praetor always does at this time of year – stage the Games of Apollo and show myself to the Roman people.’ His sensitive face was full of anguish.

‘You can’t go to Rome,’ replied Cicero. ‘It’s far too dangerous. Listen, the rest of us are more or less expendable, but not you, Brutus – your name and your honour make you the great rallying point of freedom. My advice is to take this commission, do some honourable public work far away from Italy in safety, and await more favourable events. Things will change: in politics they always do.’

At that moment Cassius arrived and Servilia asked Cicero to repeat what he’d just said. But whereas adversity had reduced Brutus to a state of noble suffering, it had put Cassius in a rage, and he started pounding on the table: ‘I did not survive the massacre at Carrhae and save Syria from the Parthians in order to be made a grain collector in Sicily! It’s an insult.’

Cicero said, ‘Well then, what will you do?’

‘Leave Italy. Go abroad. Go to Greece.’

‘Greece,’ observed Cicero, ‘will soon be rather crowded, whereas first of all Sicily is safe, second you’ll be doing your duty like a good constitutionalist, and third and above all you’ll be closer to Italy to exploit opportunities when they arise. You must be our great military commander.’

‘What sort of opportunities?’

‘Well, for example, Octavian could yet cause all sorts of trouble for Antony.’

‘Octavian? That’s one of your jokes! He’s far more likely to come after us than he is to pursue a quarrel with Antony.’

‘Not at all – I saw the boy when he was on the Bay of Naples, and he’s not as ill-disposed towards us as you might think. “It’s my legacy I want, not vengeance” – those were his very words. His real enemy is Antony.’

‘Then Antony will crush him.’

‘But Antony has to crush Decimus first, and that’s when the war will start – when Antony tries to take Nearer Gaul away from him.’

‘Decimus,’ said Cassius bitterly, ‘is the man who has let us down more than any other. Just think what we could have done with those two legions of his if he’d brought them south in March! But it’s too late now: Antony’s Macedonian legions will outnumber him two to one.’

The mention of Decimus was like the breaking of a dam. Denunciations flowed from everyone round the table, Favonius especially, who maintained he should have warned them he was mentioned in Caesar’s will: ‘That did more to turn the people against us than anything else.’

Cicero listened in growing dismay. He intervened to say that there was no point in weeping over past errors, but couldn’t resist adding, ‘Besides, if it’s mistakes you’re talking about, never mind Decimus – the seeds of our present plight were sown when you failed to call a meeting of the Senate, failed to rally the people to our cause, and failed to seize control of the republic.’

‘Well upon my word!’ exclaimed Servilia. ‘I never heard anything like it – to be accused of a lack of resolution by you of all people!’

Cicero glowered at her and immediately fell silent, his cheeks burning either with fury or embarrassment, and not long after that the meeting ended. My notes record only two conclusions. Brutus and Cassius agreed grudgingly at least to consider accepting their grain commissionerships, but only after Servilia announced in her grandest manner that she would arrange for the wording of the Senate resolution to be couched in more flattering terms. And Brutus reluctantly conceded that it was impossible for him to go to Rome and that his praetorian games would have to be staged in his absence. Apart from that the conference was a failure, with nothing decided. As Cicero explained to Atticus in a letter dictated on the way home, it was now a case of ‘every man for himself’: I found the ship going to pieces, or rather its scattered fragments. No plan, no thought, no method. Hence, though I had no doubts before, I am now all the more determined to escape from here, and as soon as I possibly can.

The die was cast. He would go to Greece.

As for me, I was almost sixty and had privately resolved that the time had come for me to leave Cicero’s service and live what remained of my life alone. I knew from the way he talked that he wasn’t expecting us to part company. He assumed we would share a villa in Athens and write philosophy together until one or other of us died of old age. But I could not face leaving Italy again. My health was not good. And love him as I did, I was tired of being a mere appendage to his brain.

I dreaded having to tell him and kept postponing the fateful moment. He undertook a kind of farewell progress south through Italy, saying goodbye to all his properties and reliving old memories, until eventually we reached Puteoli at the beginning of July – or Quintilis, as he still defiantly insisted on calling it. He had one last villa he wished to visit, along the Bay of Naples in Pompeii, and he decided he would leave on the first leg of his journey abroad from there, hugging the coast down to Sicily and boarding a merchant ship in Syracuse (he judged it too dangerous to sail from Brundisium, as the Macedonian legions were due to start arriving any day). To convey all his books, his property and household staff, I hired three ten-oared boats. He took his mind off the voyage, which he dreaded, by trying to decide what literary composition we should undertake while at sea. He was working on three treatises simultaneously, moving between them as his reading and his inclination took him: On Friendship, On Duties and On Virtues. With these he would complete his great scheme of absorbing Greek philosophy into Latin and of turning it in the process from a set of abstractions into principles for living.

He said, ‘I wonder if this would be a good opportunity for us to write our version of Aristotle’s Topics? Let’s face it: what could be more useful in this time of chaos than to teach men how to use dialectics to construct reasoned arguments? It could be in the form of a dialogue, like the Disputations – you playing one part and I the other. What do you think?’

‘My friend,’ I replied hesitantly, ‘if I may call you that, I have wanted for some time to speak to you but have not been sure how to do it.’

‘This sounds ominous! You’d better go on. Are you ill again?’

‘No, but I need to tell you I have decided not to accompany you to Greece.’

‘Ah.’ He stared at me for what felt like a very long time, his jaw moving slightly as it often did when he was trying to find the right word. Finally he said, ‘Where will you go instead?’

‘To the farm you so kindly gave me.’

His voice was very quiet: ‘I see, and when would you want to do that?’

‘At any time convenient to you.’

‘The sooner the better?’

‘I don’t mind when it is.’

‘Tomorrow?’

‘It can be tomorrow if you like. But that is not necessary. I don’t want to inconvenience you.’

‘Tomorrow then.’ And with that he turned back to his Aristotle.

I hesitated. ‘Would it be all right if I borrowed young Eros from the stables and the little carriage, to transport my belongings?’

Without looking up he replied, ‘Of course. Take whatever you need.’

I left him alone and spent the remainder of the day and the evening packing my belongings and carrying them out into the courtyard. He did not appear for dinner. The next morning there was still no sign of him. Young Quintus, who was hoping for a place on Brutus’s staff and staying with us while his uncle tried to fix an introduction, said that he had gone off very early to visit Lucullus’s old house on the island of Nesis. He put a consoling hand on my shoulder. ‘He asked me to tell you goodbye.’

‘He didn’t say more than that? Just goodbye?’

‘You know how he is.’

‘I know how he is. Would you please tell him I’ll come back in a day or two to say a proper farewell?’

I felt quite sick, but determined. I had made up my mind. Eros drove me to the farm. It was not far, only two or three miles, but the distance seemed much greater as I moved from one world to another.

The overseer and his wife had not been expecting me so soon but nonetheless seemed pleased to see me. One of the slaves was called from the barn to carry my luggage into the farmhouse. The boxes containing my books and documents went straight upstairs into the raftered room I had selected earlier as the site for my little library. It was shuttered and cool. Shelves had been put up as I requested – rough and rustic, but I didn’t care – and I set about unpacking at once. There is a wonderful line in one of Cicero’s letters to Atticus in which he describes moving into a property and says: I have put out my books and now my house has a soul. That was how I felt as I emptied my boxes. And then to my surprise in one of them I discovered the original manuscript of On Friendship. Puzzled, I unrolled it, thinking I must have brought it with me by mistake. But when I saw that Cicero had copied out at the top of the roll in his shaking hand a quotation from the text, on the importance of having friends, I realised it was a parting gift:

If a man ascended into heaven and gazed upon the whole workings of the universe and the beauty of the stars, the marvellous sight would give him no joy if he had to keep it to himself. And yet, if only there had been someone to describe the spectacle to, it would have filled him with delight. Nature abhors solitude.

I allowed two days to pass before I returned to the villa in Puteoli to say my proper goodbye: I needed to be sure I was strong enough in my resolve not to be persuaded out of it. But the steward told me Cicero had already left for Pompeii and I returned at once to the farm. From my terrace I had a sweeping view of the entire bay, and often I found myself standing there peering into the immense blueness, which ran from the misty outline of Capri right round to the promontory at Misenum, wondering if any of the myriad ships I could see was his. But then gradually I became caught up in the routine of the farm. It was almost time to harvest the vines and the olives, and despite my creaking knees and my soft scholar’s hands, I donned a tunic and a wide-brimmed straw hat and worked outside with the rest, rising with the light and going to bed when it faded, too exhausted to think. Gradually the pattern of my former life began to fade from my mind, like a carpet left out in the sun. Or so I thought.

I had no cause to leave my property save one: the place had no bath. A good bath was the thing I missed most, apart from Cicero’s conversation. I couldn’t bear to wash myself only in the cold water from the mountain spring. Accordingly I commissioned the construction of a bathhouse in one of the barns. But that couldn’t be done until after the harvest, and so I took to riding off every two or three days to use one of the public baths that are found everywhere along that stretch of coast. I tried many different establishments – in Puteoli itself, in Bauli and in Baiae – until I decided Baiae had the best, on account of the natural hot sulphurous water for which the area is famous. The clientele was sophisticated and included the freedmen of senators who had villas nearby; some of whom I knew. Without even meaning to, I began to pick up the latest gossip from Rome.

Brutus’s games had passed off well, I discovered: no expense spared, even though the praetor himself was not present. Brutus had amassed hundreds of wild beasts for the occasion and, desperate for popular acclaim, he gave orders that every last one of them should be used up in fights and hunts. There were also musical performances and plays, including Tereus, a tragedy by Accius that contained copious references to the crimes of tyrants: apparently it received knowing applause. But unfortunately for Brutus, his games, although generous, were quickly overshadowed by an even more lavish set that Octavian gave immediately afterwards in honour of Caesar. It was the time of the famous comet, the hairy star that rose every day an hour before noon – we could see it even in the brilliantly sunny skies of Campania – and Octavian claimed it was nothing less than Caesar ascending into heaven. Caesar’s veterans were greatly taken with this notion, I was told, and young Octavian’s fame and reputation began to soar with the comet.

Not long after this I was lying one afternoon in a hot pool on a terrace overlooking the sea when some men joined me who I soon gathered by their talk were on the staff of Calpurnius Piso. He had a veritable palace about twenty miles away at Herculaneum and I suppose they must have decided to break their journey from Rome and complete their travelling the next day. I didn’t consciously eavesdrop but I had my eyes closed and they may have thought I was sleeping. At any rate, I quickly pieced together the sensational intelligence that Piso, the father of Caesar’s widow, had made an outspoken attack on Antony in the Senate, accusing him of theft, forgery and treason, of aiming at a new dictatorship and of setting the nation on the road to a second civil war. When one of them said, ‘Aye, and there’s not another man in Rome with the courage to say it, now that our so-called liberators are all either hiding or have fled abroad’, I thought with a pang of Cicero, who would have hated to know that he had been supplanted as an upholder of liberty by Piso, of all people.

I waited until they’d moved on before I climbed out of the pool. I remember I thought I would have a massage while I pondered what I’d just heard. I was moving towards the shaded area where the tables were set out when a woman appeared carrying a pile of freshly laundered towels. I cannot say I recognised her at once – it must have been fifteen years since I had last set eyes on her – but a few paces after we had passed one another I stopped and looked round. She had done the same. I recognised her then all right. It was the slave girl Agathe whose freedom I had bought before I went into exile with Cicero.

This is Cicero’s story, not mine; it is certainly not Agathe’s. Nevertheless, our three lives were entwined, and before I resume the main part of my story I believe she deserves some mention.

I had met her when she was seventeen and a slave in the bath chambers of Lucullus’s great villa in Misenum. She and her parents, by then dead, had been seized as slaves in Greece and brought to Italy as part of Lucullus’s war booty. Her beauty, her gentleness and her plight all moved me. When I saw her next she was in Rome, one of six household slaves produced as witnesses at the trial of Clodius to support Lucullus’s contention that Clodius, his former brother-in-law, had committed incest and adultery in Misenum with his ex-wife. After that I glimpsed her just once more, when Cicero visited Lucullus before going into exile. She seemed to me by then to be broken in spirit and half dead. Having some small savings put aside, on the night we fled Rome I gave the money to Atticus so that he could purchase her from Lucullus on my behalf and set her free. I had kept an eye out for her in Rome over the years but had never seen her.

She was thirty-six, still beautiful to me, although I could tell from her lined face and raw-boned hands that she still had to work hard. She seemed embarrassed and kept brushing back loose strands of grey hair with the back of her wrist. After a few awkward pleasantries there was a difficult silence and I found myself saying, ‘Forgive me, I am keeping you from your work – you will be in trouble with the owner.’

‘There will be no trouble on that score,’ she replied, laughing for the first time. ‘I am the owner.’

After that we began to talk more freely. She told me she had tried to find me when she was freed, but of course by then I was in Thessalonica. Eventually she had come back to the Bay of Naples: it was the place she knew best and it reminded her of Greece. Because of her experience in the household of Lucullus, she had found plentiful work as an overseer in the local hot baths. After ten years some wealthy clients, merchants in Puteoli, had set her up in this place, and now it belonged to her. ‘But all this is because of you. How can I ever begin to thank you for your kindness?’

Live the good life, Cicero had said: learn that virtue is the sole prerequisite for happiness. As we sat on a bench in the sunshine, I felt I had proof of that particular piece of his philosophy, at least.

My sojourn on the farm lasted forty days.

On the forty-first, the eve of the Festival of Vulcan, I was working in the vineyard in the late afternoon when one of the slaves called out to me and pointed down the track. A carriage, accompanied by twenty men on horseback, was bouncing over the ruts, throwing up so much dust in the shafts of summer sunshine, it looked as if it was travelling on golden clouds. It drew up outside the villa and from it descended Cicero. I suppose I had always known in my heart that he would come looking for me. I was fated never to escape. As I walked towards him, I snatched off my straw hat and swore to myself that on no account would I be persuaded to return with him to Rome. Beneath my breath I whispered, ‘I will not listen … I will not listen … I will not listen …’

I could see at once from the swing of his shoulders as he wheeled round to greet me that he was in tremendous spirits. Gone was the drooping dejection of recent times. He put his hands on his hips and roared with laughter at my appearance. ‘I leave you alone for a month and see what happens! You have turned into the elder Cato’s ghost!’

I arranged for his entourage to be given refreshment while we went on to the shaded terrace and drank some of last year’s wine, which he pronounced to be not bad at all. ‘What a view!’ he exclaimed. ‘What a place to live out one’s declining years! Your own wine, your own olives …’

‘Yes,’ I replied carefully, ‘it suits me very well. I shan’t be going far. And your plans? What happened to Greece?’

‘Ah well, I got as far as Sicily, whereupon the southerly winds got up and kept blowing us back into harbour and I began to wonder if the gods weren’t trying to tell me something. Then, while we were stuck in Regium waiting for better weather, I heard about this extraordinary attack on Antony made by Piso. You must have heard the commotion even here. After that, letters came from Brutus and Cassius saying that Antony was definitely starting to weaken – they were to be offered provinces after all, and he had written to them saying he hoped they would soon be able to come to Rome. He has summoned the Senate for a meeting on the first of September and Brutus has sent a letter to all former consuls and praetors asking them to attend.

‘So I said to myself: am I really going to run away at this of all moments, while there’s still a chance? Will I go down in history as a coward? I tell you, Tiro, suddenly it was as if a thick mist that had enshrouded me for months had cleared and I saw my duty absolutely. I turned right around and sailed back the way I had come. As it happened, Brutus was at Velia, preparing to set sail, and he practically went down on his knees to thank me. He’s been given Crete as his province; Cassius has Cyrene.’

I could not help pointing out that these were hardly adequate compensation for Macedonia and Syria, which was what they had been allotted.

‘Of course not,’ replied Cicero, ‘which is why they’re resolved to ignore Antony and his wretched illegal edicts and go straight to their original provinces. After all, Brutus has followers in Macedonia, and Cassius was the hero of Syria. They will raise legions and fight for the republic against the usurper. A whole new spirit has infused us – a flame pure white and sublime.’

‘And you will go to Rome?’

‘Yes, for the meeting of the Senate in nine days’ time.’

‘Then it sounds to me as though you have the most dangerous assignment of the three.’

He waved his hand dismissively. ‘So what is the worst that can happen? I’ll die. Very well: I’m past sixty; I’ve run my race. And at least this will be a good death – which as you know is the supreme objective of the good life.’ He leaned forwards. ‘Tell me: do I seem happy to you?’

‘You do,’ I conceded.

‘That’s because I realised when I was stuck in Regium that finally I have conquered my fear of death. Philosophy – our work together – has accomplished that for me. Oh, I know that you and Atticus won’t believe me. You’ll think that underneath I’m still the same timid creature I always was. But it’s true.’

‘And presumably you expect me to come with you?’

‘No, not at all – the opposite! You have your farm and your literary studies. I don’t want you to expose yourself to any more risk. But our earlier parting was not what it should have been, and I couldn’t pass your gate without remedying that.’ He stood and opened his arms wide. ‘Goodbye, my old friend. Words are inadequate to express my gratitude. I hope we meet again.’

He clasped me to him so firmly and for so long that I could feel the strong and steady beating of his heart. Then he pulled away, and with a final wave he walked towards his carriage and his bodyguards.

I watched him go, his familiar gestures: the straightening of his shoulders, the adjustment of the folds of his tunic, the unthinking way he offered his hand to be helped into his carriage. I glanced around at my vines and my olive trees, my goats and my chickens, my dry-stone walls, my sheep. Suddenly it seemed a small world – a very small world.

I called after him: ‘Wait!’