Imperium (31 page)

They had never seen a consular candidate up here before, and in every little town crowds of several hundred would turn out to listen to him. Cicero usually spoke from the back of one of the wagons, and gave the same speech at every stop, so that after a while I could move my lips in synchronicity with his. He denounced as nonsense the logic which said that a man who lived on one side of a stretch of water was a Roman and that his cousin on the other was a barbarian, even though they both spoke Latin. “Rome is not merely a matter of geography,” he would proclaim. “Rome is not defined by rivers, or mountains, or even seas; Rome is not a question of blood, or race, or religion; Rome is an ideal. Rome is the highest embodiment of liberty and law that mankind has yet achieved in the ten thousand years since our ancestors came down from those mountains and learned how to live as communities under the rule of law.” So if his listeners had the vote, he would conclude, they must be sure to use it on behalf of those who had not, for that was their fragment of civilization, their special gift, as precious as the secret of fire. Every man should see Rome once before he died. They should go next summer, when the traveling was easy, and cast their ballots on the Field of Mars, and if anyone asked them why they had come so far, “you can tell them Marcus Cicero sent you!” Then he would jump down and pass among the crowd while they were still applauding, doling out handfuls of chickpeas from a sack carried by one of his attendants, and I would make sure I was just behind him, to catch his instructions and write down names.

I learned much about Cicero while he was out campaigning. Indeed, I would say that despite all the years we had spent together I never really knew him until I saw him in one of those small towns south of the Po—Faventia, say, or Claterna—with the late autumn light just starting to fade, and a cold wind blowing off the mountains, and the lamps being lit in the little shops along the main street, and the upturned faces of the local farmers gazing in awe at this famous senator on the back of his wagon, with his three fingers outstretched, pointing toward the glory of Rome. I realized then that, for all his sophistication, he was really still one of them—a man from a small provincial town with an idealized dream of the republic and what it meant to be a citizen, which burned all the fiercer within him because he, too, was an outsider.

For the next two months Cicero devoted himself entirely to the electors of Nearer Gaul, especially those around the provincial capital of Placentia, which actually lies on the banks of the Po and where whole families were divided by the vexed question of citizenship. He was given great assistance in his campaigning by the governor, Piso—that same Piso, curiously enough, who had threatened Pompey with the fate of Romulus if he pressed ahead with his desire for the special command. Piso was a pragmatist, whose family had commercial interests beyond the Po. He was thus in favor of extending the vote; he even gave Cicero a special commission on his staff, to enable him to travel more freely. We spent the festival of Saturnalia at Piso’s headquarters, imprisoned by snow, and I could see the governor becoming more and more charmed by Cicero’s manners and wit, to the extent that one evening, after plenty of wine, he clapped him on the shoulder and declared, “Cicero, you are a good fellow after all. A better fellow, and a better patriot than I realized. Speaking for myself, I would be willing to see you as consul. It is only a pity it will never happen.”

Cicero looked taken aback. “And why are you so sure of that?”

“Because the aristocrats will never stand for it, and they control too many votes.”

“It is true they have great influence,” conceded Cicero. “But I have the support of Pompey.”

Piso roared with laughter. “And much good may it do you! He is lording it around at the other end of the world, and besides—haven’t you noticed?—he never stirs for anyone except himself. Do you know who I would watch out for if I were you?”

“Catilina?”

“Yes, him, too. But the one who should really worry you is Antonius Hybrida.”

“But the man is a half-wit!”

“Cicero, you disappoint me. Since when has idiocy been a bar to advancement in politics? You take it from me—Hybrida is the man the aristocrats will rally around, and then you and Catilina will be left to fight it out for second place, and do not look to Pompey for help.”

Cicero smiled and affected unconcern, but Piso’s remarks had struck home, and as soon as the snowfall melted we set off back to Rome at maximum speed.

WE REACHED THE CITY in the middle of January, and to begin with all seemed well. Cicero resumed his hectic round of advocacy in the courts, and his campaign team once again met weekly under the supervision of Quintus, who assured him his support was holding firm. We were minus young Caelius, but his absence was more than made up for by the addition of Cicero’s oldest and closest friend, Atticus, who had returned to live in Rome after an absence in Greece of some twenty years.

I must tell you a little about Atticus, whose importance in Cicero’s life I have so far only hinted at, and who was about to become extremely significant indeed. Already rich, he had recently inherited a fine house on the Quirinal Hill together with twenty million in cash from his uncle, Quintus Caecilius, one of the most loathed and misanthropic moneylenders in Rome, and it says much about Atticus that he alone remained on reasonable terms with this repulsive old man right up to his death. Some might have suspected opportunism, but the truth was that Atticus, because of his philosophy, had made it a principle never to fall out with anyone. He was a devoted follower of the teachings of Epicurus—“that pleasure is the beginning and end of living happily”—although I hasten to add that he was an Epicurean not in the commonly misunderstood sense, as a seeker after luxury, but in the true meaning, as a pursuer of what the Greeks call
ataraxia,
or freedom from disturbance. He consequently avoided arguments and unpleasantness of any kind (needless to say, he was unmarried) and desired only to contemplate philosophy by day and dine by night with his cultured friends. He believed that all mankind should have similar aims and was baffled that they did not: he tended to forget, as Cicero occasionally reminded him, that not everyone had inherited a fortune. He never for an instant contemplated undertaking anything as upsetting or dangerous as a political career, yet at the same time, as an insurance against future mishap, he had taken pains to cultivate every aristocrat who passed through Athens—which, over two decades, was a lot—by drawing up their family trees and presenting them as gifts, beautifully illustrated by his slaves. He was also extremely shrewd with money. In short, there can never have been anyone quite so worldly in his pursuit of unworldliness as Titus Pomponius Atticus.

He was three years older than Cicero, who stood somewhat in awe of him, not only because of his wealth but also his social connections, for if there is one man guaranteed to enjoy an automatic entrée into smart society it is a rich and witty bachelor in his middle forties with an unfeigned interest in the genealogy of his host and hostess. This made him invaluable as a source of political intelligence, and it was from Atticus that Cicero now began to realize how formidable was the opposition to his candidacy. First, Atticus heard over dinner from his great friend Servilia—the half sister of Cato—that Antonius Hybrida was definitely running for the consulship. A few weeks after that, Atticus reported a comment of Hortensius (another of his acquaintances) to the effect that Hybrida and Catilina were planning to run on a joint ticket. This was a serious blow, and although Cicero tried to make light of it—“oh well, a target that is double the size is twice as easy to hit”—I could see that he was shaken, for he had no running mate of his own, and at this stage had no serious prospect of finding one.

But the really bad news came just after the senatorial recess in the late spring. Atticus sent a message that he needed to see the Cicero brothers urgently, so when the courts had closed for the day all three of us made our way up to his house. This was a perfect bachelor setup, built on a promontory next to the Temple of Salus—not large, but with the most wonderful views across the city, especially from the library, which Atticus had made the centerpiece of the house. There were busts of the great philosophers around the walls, and many little cushioned benches to sit on, for Atticus’s rule was that while he would never lend a book, any of his friends were free whenever they liked to come up and read or even make their own copies. And it was here, beneath a head of Aristotle, that we found Atticus reclining that afternoon, dressed in the loose white tunic of a Greek, and reading, if I remember rightly, a volume of
Kyriai doxai,
the principal doctrines of Epicurus.

He came straight to the point. “I was at dinner last night on the Palatine, at the home of Metellus Celer and the Lady Clodia, and among the other guests was our former consul, no less an aristocrat than—” he blew on an imaginary trumpet “—Publius Cornelius Lentulus Sura.”

“By heavens,” said Cicero with a smile, “the company you keep!”

“Did you know that Lentulus is trying to make a comeback, by standing for a praetorship this summer?”

“Is he really?” Cicero frowned and rubbed his forehead. “He is of course a great friend of Catilina. I suppose they must be in alliance. See how the gang of rascals grows?”

“Oh yes, it is quite a political movement—him, and Catilina and Hybrida, and I got the impression there were others, but he would not give me their names. At one point, he produced a piece of paper with the prediction of some oracle written upon it, that he would be the third of the Corneli to rule as dictator in Rome.”

“Old Sleepyhead? Dictator? I trust you laughed in his face.”

“No, I did not,” replied Atticus. “I took him very seriously. You ought to try it sometime, Cicero, instead of just delivering one of your crushing witticisms which simply shuts everybody up. No, I encouraged him to ramble on, and he drank more of Celer’s excellent wine, and I listened more, and he drank more, and eventually he swore me to secrecy and he told me his great secret.”

“Which is?” said Cicero, leaning forward in his seat, for he knew that Atticus would not have summoned us for nothing.

“They are being backed by Crassus.”

There was a silence.

“Crassus is voting for them?” asked Cicero, which I think was the first time I had ever heard him say something seriously stupid: I ascribe it to the shock.

“No,” said Atticus irritably. “He is backing them. You know what I mean. Financing them. Buying them the whole election, according to Lentulus.”

Cicero seemed temporarily deprived of the power of speech. After another long pause it was Quintus who spoke up. “I do not believe it. Lentulus must have been well in his cups to make such a ridiculous boast. What possible reason would Crassus have for wanting to see such men in power?”

“To spite me,” said Cicero, recovering his voice.

“Nonsense!” exclaimed Quintus angrily. (Why was he so angry? I suppose because he was frightened that the story was true, in which case he would look a fool, especially in the light of all the assurances he had given his brother that the campaign was in the bag.) “Absolute nonsense!” he repeated, although with slightly less certainty. “We already know that Crassus is investing heavily in Caesar’s future. How much would it cost him in addition to buy two consulships and a praetorship? You are talking not just about a million, but four million, five million. He hates you, Marcus, everyone knows it. But does he hate you so much more than he loves his money? I doubt it.”

“No,” said Cicero firmly, “I am afraid you are wrong, Quintus. This story has the ring of truth, and I blame myself for not recognizing the danger earlier.” He was on his feet now and pacing around, as he always did when he was thinking hard. “It started with those Games of Apollo given by Hybrida—Crassus must have paid for those. The games were what brought Hybrida back from the political dead. And could Catilina really have raised the funds to bribe his jury, simply by selling a few statues and pictures? Of course not. And even if he did, who is paying his campaign expenses now? Because I have been inside his house and I can tell you: that man is bankrupt.” He wheeled around, his gaze darting right and left, bright and unseeing. “I have always known in my bones that there was something wrong about this election. I have sensed some invisible force against me from the very outset. Hybrida and Catilina! These creatures should never even have been
candidates
in any normal canvass, let alone the front-runners. They are merely the tools of someone else.”

“So we are fighting Crassus?” said Quintus, sounding resigned to it at last.

“Crassus, yes. Or is it really Caesar, using Crassus’s money? Every time I look around, I seem to see a flash of Caesar’s cloak just disappearing out of view. He thinks he is cleverer than anyone, and perhaps he is. But not on this occasion. Atticus—” Cicero stopped in front of him and took his hands in both of his “—my old friend. I cannot thank you enough.”

“For what? I merely listened to a bore, and then plied him with a little drink. It was hardly anything.”

“On the contrary, the ability to listen to bores requires stamina, and such stamina is the essence of politics. It is from the bores that you really find things out.” Cicero squeezed his hands warmly, then swung around to his brother. “We need to find some evidence, Quintus. Ranunculus and Filum are the men who can sniff it out—not much moves at election time in this city that those two are not aware of.”

Quintus agreed, and in this way, the shadowboxing of the consular election finally ended, and the real fight began.

Roll XVI

TO DISCOVER WHAT WAS GOING ON, Cicero devised a trap. Rather than simply asking around about what Crassus was up to—which would have got him nowhere, and also have alerted his enemies that he was suspicious—he instructed Ranunculus and Filum to go out into the city and let it be known that they were representing a certain anonymous senator who was worried about his prospects in the forthcoming consular ballot, and was willing to pay fifty sesterces per vote to the right electoral syndicate.

Ranunculus was a runtish, almost half-formed creature, with a flat, round face at the end of a feeble body, who well deserved his nickname of “Tadpole.” Filum was a giant spindle, an animated candlestick. Their fathers and grandfathers had been bribery agents before them. They knew the score. They disappeared into the back streets and bars, and a week or so later reported back to Cicero that something very strange was going on. All the usual bribery agents were refusing to cooperate. “Which means,” as Ranunculus put it, in his squeaky voice, “either that Rome is full of honest men for the first time in three hundred years, or every vote that was up for sale has already been bought.”

“There must be someone who will crack for a higher price,” insisted Cicero. “You had better do the rounds again, and this time offer a hundred.”

So back they went, and back they returned after another week with the same story. Such was the huge amount that the bribery agents were already being paid, and such was their nervousness about antagonizing their mysterious client, that there was not a single vote to be had, and not a breath of rumor as to who that client might be. Now you might well wonder, given the thousands of votes involved, how such an immense operation could remain so tight a secret. The answer is that it was very cleverly organized, with perhaps only a dozen agents, or
interpretes
as they were called, knowing the identity of the buyer (I regret to say that both Ranunculus and Filum had acted as
interpretes
in the past). These men would contact the officials of the voting syndicates and strike the initial bargain—such-and-such a price for fifty votes, say, or five hundred, depending on the size of the syndicate. Because naturally no one trusted anyone else in this game, the money would then be deposited with a second category of agent, known as the
sequester,
who would hold the cash available for inspection. And finally, when the election was over and it was time to settle up, a third species of criminal, the so-called
divisor,
would distribute it. This made it extremely difficult to bring a successful prosecution, for even if a man was arrested in the very act of handing over a bribe, he might genuinely have no idea of who had commissioned the corruption in the first place. But still Cicero refused to accept that someone would not talk. “We are dealing with bribery agents,” he shouted, in a rare show of anger, “not an ancient order of Roman knights! Somewhere you will find a man who will betray even as dangerous a paymaster as Crassus, if the money is good enough. Go and track him down and find his price—or must I do everything myself?”

By this time—I suppose it must have been well into June, about a month before the election—everyone knew that something strange was going on. It was turning into one of the most memorable and closely fought campaigns in living memory, with a field of no fewer than seven for the consulship, a reflection of the fact that many men fancied their chances that year. The three front-runners were reckoned to be Catilina, Hybrida, and Cicero. Then came the snobbish and acerbic Galba, and the deeply religious Cornificius. The two no-hopers were the corpulent ex-praetor, Cassius Longinius, and Gaius Licinius Sacerdos, who had been governor of Sicily even before Verres, and who was at least a decade older than his rivals. (Sacerdos was one of those irritating candidates who enter elections “not out of any personal ambition,” as they like to say, but solely with the intention of “raising issues.” “Always beware of the man who says he is not seeking office for himself,” said Cicero, “for he is the vainest of the lot.”) Realizing that the bribery agents were unusually active, the senior consul, Marcius Figulus, was prevailed upon by several of these candidates to bring before the Senate a severe new law against electoral malpractice: what he hoped would become the
lex Figula
. It was already illegal for a candidate to offer a bribe; the new bill also made it a criminal offense for a voter to accept one.

When the time came for the measure to be debated in the Senate, the consul first went around to each of the candidates in turn to ask for his opinion. Sacerdos, as the senior man, spoke first, and made a pious speech in favor; I could see Cicero squirming with irritation at his platitudes. Hybrida naturally spoke against, but in his usual bumbling and unmemorable way—no one would ever have believed his father had once been the most eagerly sought advocate in Rome. Galba, who was going to lose badly in any case, took this opportunity to withdraw from the election, loftily announcing that there was no glory in participating in such a squalid contest, which disgraced the memory of his ancestors. Catilina, for obvious reasons, also spoke against the
lex Figula,
and I must concede that he was impressive. Utterly without nerves, he towered over the benches around him, and when he came to the end of his remarks he pointed at Cicero and roared that the only men who would benefit from yet another new piece of legislation were the lawyers, which drew the usual cheers from the aristocrats. Cicero was in a delicate position, and as he rose I wondered what he would say. Obviously he did not wish to see the legislation fail, but nor, on the eve of the most important election of his life, did he want to alienate the voting syndicates, who naturally regarded the bill as an attack on their honor. His response was adroit.

“In general I welcome this bill,” he said, “which can only be a terror to those who are guilty. The honest citizen has nothing to fear from a law against bribery, and the dishonest should be reminded that a vote is a sacred trust, not a voucher to be cashed in once a year. But there is one thing wrong with it: an imbalance which needs to be redressed. Are we really saying that the poor man who succumbs to temptation is more to be condemned than the rich man who deliberately places temptation in his way? I say the opposite: that if we are to legislate against the one, we must strengthen the sanctions against the other. With your permission, therefore, Figulus, I wish to propose an amendment to your bill:
that any person who solicits, or seeks to solicit, or causes to be solicited, the vote of any citizen in return for money, should be liable to a penalty of ten years’ exile
.” That produced an excited and long-drawn-out “Oohh!” from all around the chamber.

I could not see Crassus’s face from where I was standing, but Cicero delightedly assured me afterwards that it turned bright red, for that phrase, “or causes to be solicited,” was aimed directly at him, and everyone knew it. The consul placidly accepted the amendment and asked if any member wished to speak against it. But the majority of the house were too surprised to react, and those such as Crassus who stood to lose most dared not expose themselves in public by openly opposing it. Accordingly, the amendment was carried without opposition, and when the house divided on the main bill, it was passed by a large margin. Figulus, preceded by his lictors, left the chamber, and all the senators filed out into the sunshine to watch him mount the rostra and give the bill to the herald for an immediate first reading. I saw Hybrida make a move toward Crassus, but Catilina caught his arm, and Crassus walked rapidly away from the Forum, to avoid being seen with his nominees. The usual three weekly market days would now have to elapse before the bill could be voted upon, which meant that the people would have their say almost on the eve of the consular election.

Cicero was pleased with his day’s work, for the possibility now opened up that if the
lex Figula
passed, and if he lost the election because of bribery, he might be in a position to launch a prosecution not only against Catilina and Hybrida, but also against his master enemy Crassus himself. It was only two years, after all, since a previous pair of consuls-elect had been stripped of their offices for electoral malpractice. But to succeed in such an action he would require evidence, and the pressure to find it became even more intense. Every waking hour he now spent canvassing, going about with a great crowd of supporters, but never with a
nomenclator
at his elbow to whisper the names of the voters; unlike his opponents, Cicero took great pride in being able to remember thousands of names, and on the rare occasion when he met someone whose identity he had forgotten, he could always bluff his way through.

I admired him greatly at this time, for he must have known that the odds were heavily against him and the chances were that he was going to lose. Piso’s prediction about Pompey had proved amply correct, and the great man had not lifted a finger to assist Cicero during the campaign. He had established himself at Amisus, on the eastern edge of the Black Sea—which is about as far away from Rome as it is possible to get—and there, like some great Eastern potentate, he was receiving homage from no fewer than twelve native kings. Syria had been annexed. Mithradates was in headlong retreat. Pompey’s house on the Esquiline had been decorated with the captured beaks of fifty pirate triremes and was nowadays known as the
domus rostra
—a shrine to his admirers all across Italy. What did Pompey care anymore about the pygmy struggles of mere civilians? Cicero’s letters to him went unanswered. Quintus railed against his ingratitude, but Cicero was fatalistic: “If it is gratitude you want, get a dog.”

THREE DAYS BEFORE the consular election, and on the eve of the vote on the bribery law, there was at last a breakthrough. Ranunculus came rushing in to see Cicero with the news that he had found a bribery agent named Gaius Salinator, who claimed to be in a position to sell three hundred votes for five hundred sesterces apiece. He owned a bar in the Subura called the Bacchante, and it had been agreed that Ranunculus would go to see him that very night, give him the name of the candidate for whom the bribed electors were to vote, and at the same time hand over the money to one of the
sequestris,
who was trusted by them both. When Cicero heard about this he became very excited, and insisted that he would accompany Ranunculus to the meeting, with a hood pulled down to conceal his well-known face. Quintus was against the plan, considering it too dangerous, but Cicero was insistent that he needed to gather evidence firsthand. “I shall have Ranunculus and Tiro with me for protection,” he said (I assume this was one of his jokes), “but perhaps you could arrange for a few loyal supporters to be drinking in the neighborhood, just in case we need more assistance.”

I was by this time almost forty, and after a life devoted exclusively to clerical duties my hands were as soft as a maiden’s. In the event of trouble it would be Cicero, whose daily exercises had given him an imposing physique, who would be called upon to protect
me
. Nevertheless, I opened up the safe in his study and began counting out the cash we needed in silver coin. (He had a well-stocked campaign fund, made up of gifts from his admirers, which he drew on to pay for such expenses as his tour of Nearer Gaul; this money was not bribes, as such, although obviously it was comforting for the donors to know that Cicero was a man who famously never forgot a name.) Anyway, this silver was fitted into a money belt which I had to strap around my waist, and with a heavy tread, in both senses of the phrase, I descended with Cicero at dusk into the Subura. He cut a curious figure wearing a hooded tunic borrowed from one of his slaves, for the night was very warm. But in the crowded slums of the poor, the bizarrely dressed are an everyday sight, and when people saw a man with a hood pulled down low over his face they gave him a wide berth, perhaps fearing that he had leprosy or some other disfiguring ailment. We followed Ranunculus, who darted, appropriately tadpole-like, through the labyrinth of narrow squalid alleys which were his natural habitat, until at last we came to a corner where men were sitting, leaning against the wall, passing a jar of wine back and forth. Above their heads, beside the door, was a painting of Bacchus with his groin thrust out, relieving himself, and the spot had the smell to match the sign. Ranunculus stepped inside and led us behind the counter and up some narrow wooden stairs to a raftered room, where Salinator was waiting, along with another man, the
sequester,
whose name I never learned.

They were so anxious to see the money, they paid little attention to the hooded figure behind me. I had to take off my belt and show them a handful of coins, whereupon the
sequester
produced a small pair of scales and began weighing the silver. Salinator, who was a flabby, lank-haired, potbellied creature, watched this for a while, then said to Ranunculus, “That seems well enough. Now you had better give me the name of your client.”

“I am his client,” said Cicero, throwing back his hood. Needless to say, Salinator recognized him at once, and stepped back in alarm, crashing into the
sequester
and his scales. The bribery agent struggled to recover, hopelessly trying to turn his stumble into a sequence of bows, and began some improvised speech about what an honor it was and so forth to help the senator in his campaign, but Cicero shut him up quickly. “I do not require any help from the likes of you, wretch! All I require is information.”

Salinator had just begun to whine that he knew nothing when suddenly the
sequester
dropped his scales and made a dive for the staircase. He must have got about halfway down before he ran into the solid figure of Quintus, who spun him around, hauled him up by his collar and the seat of his tunic, and threw him back into the room. Coming up the stairs behind Quintus, I was relieved to see, were a couple of stout young lads who often served as Cicero’s attendants. At the sight of so many, and confronted by the most famous advocate in Rome, Salinator’s resistance began to weaken. What finished it altogether was Cicero’s threat to hand him over to Crassus for trying to sell the same votes twice, for nothing scared him more than Crassus’s retribution. I was reminded of that phrase about Old Baldhead which Cicero had repeated years before: “the most dangerous bull in the herd.”