Imperium (37 page)

But then came the voting of the six centuries composed exclusively of the aristocrats, the
sex suffragia,
and they really put the knife into Catilina, so that if I retain one image above all from that memorable day it is of the patricians, having cast their ballots, filing past the candidates. Because the Field of Mars lies outside the city limits, there was nothing to stop Lucius Lucullus, and Quintus Metellus with him, both in their scarlet cloaks and military uniforms, turning out to vote, and their appearance caused a sensation—but nothing as great as the uproar that greeted the announcement that their century had voted Cicero first and then Hybrida. After them came Isauricus, the elder Curio, Aemilius Alba, Claudius Pulcher, Junius Servilius—the husband of Cato’s sister, Servilia—old Metellus Pius, the
pontifex maximus,
too sick to walk but carried in a litter, followed by his adopted son, Scipio Nasica…. And again and again the announcement was the same: Cicero first, and next Hybrida; Cicero first, and next Hybrida; Cicero first…When, finally, Hortensius and Catulus passed by, it was noticeable that neither man could bring himself to look Catilina in the eye, and once it was declared that their century, too, had voted for Cicero and Hybrida, Catilina must have realized his chances were finished. At that point Cicero had eighty-seven centuries to Hybrida’s thirty-five and Catilina’s thirty-four—for the first time in the day, Hybrida had eased in front of his running mate, but more important, the aristocrats had publicly turned on one of their own, and in the most brutal manner. After that, Catilina’s candidacy was effectively dead, although one had to give him high marks for his conduct. I had anticipated that he would storm off in a rage, or lunge at Cicero and try to murder him with his bare hands. But instead he stood throughout that long, hot day, as the citizens went past him and his hopes of the consulship sank with the sun, and he maintained a look of imperturbable calm, even when Figulus came forward for the final time to read the result of the election:

We cheered until our throats ached, although Cicero himself seemed very preoccupied for a man who had just achieved his life’s ambition, and I felt oddly uneasy. He was now permanently wearing what I later came to recognize as his “consular look”: his chin held ever so slightly high, his mouth set in a determined line, and his eyes seemingly directed toward some glorious point in the distance. Hybrida held out his hand to Catilina, but Catilina ignored it and stepped down from the podium like a man in a trance. He was ruined, bankrupt—surely it would be only a year or two before he was thrown out of the Senate altogether. I searched around for Crassus and Caesar, but they had quit the field hours earlier, once Cicero had passed the number of centuries needed for victory. So, too, had the aristocrats. They had gone home for the day the instant Catilina had been safely disposed of, like men who had been required to perform some distasteful duty—put down a favorite hunting dog, say, which had become rabid—and who now wanted nothing more than the quiet comfort of their own hearths.

THUS DID MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO, at forty-two, the youngest age allowable, achieve the supreme
imperium
of the Roman consulship—and achieve it, amazingly, by a unanimous vote of the centuries, and as a “new man,” without family, fortune, or force of arms to assist him: a feat never accomplished before or afterwards. We returned that evening to his modest home, and once he had thanked his supporters and sent them away, and received the congratulations of his slaves, he ordered that the couches from the dining room be carried up onto the roof, so that he could dine beneath the open sky, as he had done on that night—so long ago it seemed—when he had first disclosed his ambition to become consul. I was honored to be invited to join the family group, for Cicero was insistent that he would never have achieved his goal without me. For a delirious moment I thought he might be about to award me my freedom and give me that farm right there and then, but he said nothing about it, and it did not seem the appropriate time or setting to bring it up. He was on one couch with Terentia, Quintus was with Pomponia, Tullia was with her fiancé, Frugi, and I reclined with Atticus. I can recall little at my great age of what we ate or drank, or any of that, but I do remember that we each went over our particular memories of the day, and especially of that extraordinary spectacle of the aristocracy voting en masse for Cicero.

“Tell me, Marcus,” said Atticus, in his worldly way, once plenty of good wine had been consumed, “how did you manage to persuade them? Because, although I know you are a genius with words, these men despised you—absolutely loathed everything you said and stood for. What did you offer them, besides stopping Catilina?”

“Obviously,” replied Cicero, “I had to promise that I will lead the opposition to Crassus and Caesar and the tribunes when they publish this land reform bill of theirs.”

“That will be quite a task,” said Quintus.

“And that is all?” persisted Atticus. (It is my belief, looking back, that he was behaving like a good cross-examiner, and that he knew the answer to the question before he asked it, probably from his friend Hortensius.) “You really agreed to nothing else? Because you were in there for many hours.”

Cicero winced. “Well, I did have to undertake,” he said reluctantly, “to propose in the Senate, as consul, that Lucullus should be awarded a triumph, and also Quintus Metellus.”

Now at last I understood why Cicero had seemed so grim and preoccupied when he left his conference with the aristocrats. Quintus put down his plate and regarded him with undisguised horror. “So first they want you to turn the people against you by blocking land reform, and then they demand that you should make an enemy out of Pompey by awarding triumphs to his greatest rivals?”

“I am afraid, brother,” said Cicero wearily, “that the aristocracy did not acquire their wealth without knowing how to drive a hard bargain. I held out as long as I could.”

“But why did you agree?”

“Because I needed to win.”

“But to win what, exactly?”

Cicero was silent.

“Good,” said Terentia, patting her husband’s knee. “I think all those policies are good.”

“Well, you would!” protested Quintus. “But within weeks of taking office, Marcus will have no supporters left. The people will accuse him of betrayal. The Pompeians will do the same. And the aristocrats will drop him just as soon as he has served his purpose. Who will be left to defend him?”

“I shall defend you,” said Tullia, but for once no one laughed at her precocious loyalty, and even Cicero could only manage a faint smile. But then he rallied.

“Really, Quintus,” he said, “you are spoiling the whole evening. Between two extremes there is always a third way. Crassus and Caesar have to be stopped: I can make that case. And when it comes to Lucullus, everyone accepts that he deserves a triumph a hundred times over for what he achieved in the war against Mithradates.”

“And Metellus?” cut in Quintus.

“I am sure I shall be able to find something to praise even in Metellus, if you give me sufficient time.”

“And Pompey?”

“Pompey, as we all know, is simply a humble servant of the republic,” replied Cicero, with an airy wave of his hand. “More important,” he added, deadpan, “he is not here.”

There was a pause and then, reluctantly, Quintus started to laugh. “He is not here,” he repeated. “Well, that is true.” After a while, we all laughed; one had to laugh, really.

“That is better!” Cicero smiled at us. “The art of life is to deal with problems as they arise, rather than destroy one’s spirit by worrying about them too far in advance. Especially tonight.” And then a tear came into his eye. “Do you know who we should drink to? I believe we should raise a toast to the memory of our dear cousin, Lucius, who was here on this roof when we first talked of the consulship, and who would so much have wanted to see this day.” He raised his cup, and we all raised ours with him, although I could not help remembering the last remark Lucius ever made to him:
“Words, words, words. Is there no end to the tricks you can make them perform?”

Later, after everyone had gone, either to his home or to his bed, Cicero lay on his back on one of the couches, with his hands clasped behind his head, staring up at the stars. I sat quietly on the opposite couch with my notebook ready in case he needed anything. I tried to stay alert. But the night was warm and I was swooning with tiredness, and when my head nodded forward for the fourth or fifth time, he looked across at me and told me to go and get some rest: “You are the private secretary of a consul-elect now. You will need to keep your wits as sharp as your pen.” As I stood to take my leave, he settled back into his contemplation of the heavens. “How will posterity judge us, eh, Tiro?” he said. “That is the only question for a statesman. But before it can judge us, it must first remember who we are.” I waited for a while in case he wanted to add something else, but he seemed to have forgotten my existence, so I went away and left him to it.

Author’s Note
 

Although
Imperium
is a novel, the majority of the events it describes did actually happen; the remainder at least
could
have happened; and nothing, I hope (a hostage to fortune, this), demonstrably
did not
happen. That Tiro wrote a life of Cicero is attested both by Plutarch and Asconius; it vanished in the general collapse of the Roman empire.

My principal debt is to the twenty-nine volumes of Cicero’s speeches and letters collected in the Loeb Classical Library and published by Harvard University Press. Another invaluable aid has been
The Magistrates of the Roman Republic,
Volume II,
99 B.C.–31 B.C.
by T. Robert S. Broughton, published by the American Philological Association. I should also like to salute Sir William Smith (1813–1893), who edited the
Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology, A Dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities,
and the
Dictionary of Greek and Roman Geography
—three immense and unsurpassed monuments of Victorian classical scholarship. There are, of course, many other works of more recent authorship which I hope to acknowledge in due course.

R. H.
16 MAY 2006

About the Author

ROBERT HARRIS is the author of
Pompeii, Archangel, Enigma, Fatherland,
and
Selling Hitler
. He has been a television correspondent with the BBC and a newspaper columnist for the London
Sunday Times
and
The Daily Telegraph
. His novels have sold more than ten million copies and been translated into thirty languages. He lives in Berkshire, England, with his wife and four children.

Also by Robert Harris
 

FICTION

Pompeii

Archangel

Enigma

Fatherland

NONFICTION

Selling Hitler: The Story of the Hitler Diaries