Imperium (7 page)

“Let us get to the point, shall we?” said Crassus after he had invited Cicero to sit down. He took off his cloak and handed it to his son, then settled on the couch. “There are two things I would like to ask of you, Cicero. One is your support for my candidacy for the consulship. I am forty-four, so I am more than old enough, and I believe this ought to be my year. The other is a triumph. For both I am willing to pay whatever is your current market rate. Normally, as you know, I insist on an exclusive contract, but, given your prior commitments, I suppose I shall have to settle for half of you. Half of Cicero,” he added with a slight bow of his head, “being worth twice as much as the entirety of most men.”

“That is flattering, Imperator,” responded Cicero, bridling at the implication. “Thank you. My slave cannot be bought, but I can, is that it? Perhaps you will allow me to think about it.”

“What is there to think about? Every citizen has two votes for the consulship. Give one to me and one to whomever else you please. Just make sure your friends all follow your example. Tell them Crassus never forgets those who oblige him. Or those who disoblige him, for that matter.”

“I would still have to think about it, I am afraid.”

Some shadow moved across Crassus’s friendly face, like a pike in clear water. “And my triumph?”

“Personally, I absolutely believe you have earned the honor. But, as you know, to qualify for a triumph it is necessary for the military action concerned to have extended the dominion of the state. The Senate has consulted the precedents. Apparently it is not enough merely to regain territory that has been previously lost. For example, when Fulvius won back Capua after its defection to Hannibal, he was not allowed a triumph.” Cicero explained all this with what seemed genuine regret.

“But this is a technicality, surely? If Pompey can be a consul without meeting any of the necessary requirements, why cannot I at least have a triumph? I know you are unfamiliar with the difficulties of military command, or even,” he added sinuously, “with military service, but surely you would agree that I have met all the other requirements—killed five thousand in battle, fought under the auspices, been saluted imperator by the legions, brought peace to the province, withdrawn my troops? If someone of influence such as yourself were to put down a motion in the Senate, he would find me very generous.”

There was a long pause, and I wondered how Cicero would escape from his dilemma.

“
There
is your triumph, Imperator!” he said suddenly, pointing in the direction of the Appian Way. “
That
is the monument to the kind of man you are! For as long as Romans have tongues to speak, they will remember the name of Crassus as the man who crucified six thousand slaves over three hundred and fifty miles, with one hundred and seventeen paces between the crosses. None of our other great generals would ever have done such a thing. Scipio Africanus, Pompey, Lucullus”—Cicero flicked them away with contempt—“none of them would even have
thought
of it.”

Cicero sat back and smiled at Crassus; Crassus smiled in return. Time went on. I felt myself begin to sweat. It became a contest to see whose smile would crack first. Eventually Crassus stood and held out his hand to Cicero. “Thank you so much for coming, my young friend,” he said.

WHEN THE SENATE MET a few days later to determine honors, Cicero voted with the majority to deny Crassus a triumph. The vanquisher of Spartacus had to settle for an ovation, an altogether second-class award. Rather than entering the city riding on a chariot drawn by four horses, he would have to walk in on foot; the customary fanfare of trumpets would be replaced by the trilling of flutes; and instead of the usual wreath of laurel he would be permitted to wear only myrtle. “If the man has any sense of honor,” said Cicero, “he will turn it down.” I need hardly add that Crassus quickly sent word of his acceptance.

Once the discussion moved on to honors for Pompey, Afranius pulled a clever trick. He used his praetorian rank to rise early in the debate and declare that Pompey would accept with humble gratitude whatever the house chose to grant him: he would be arriving outside the city with ten thousand men the following day and hoped to thank as many of the senators in person as possible.
Ten thousand men?
After that, even the aristocrats were unwilling publicly to snub the conqueror of Spain, and the consuls were instructed by a unanimous vote to attend on Pompey at his earliest convenience and offer him a full triumph.

The next morning Cicero dressed with even more care than usual and consulted with Quintus and Lucius as to what line he should take in his discussions with Pompey. He decided on a bold approach. The following year he would be thirty-six, just eligible to stand for an aedileship of Rome, of which four were elected annually. The functions of the office—the maintenance of public buildings and public order, the celebration of various festivals, and the issuing of trading licenses, distribution of grain, etc.—were a useful means of consolidating political support. That was what he would ask for, it was agreed: Pompey’s backing for an aedileship. “I believe I have earned it,” said Cicero.

After that was settled, we joined the throngs of citizens heading west toward the Field of Mars, where it was rumored that Pompey intended to halt his legions. (It was, at least in those days, illegal to possess military
imperium
within the sacred boundaries of Rome, thus both Crassus and Pompey were obliged, if they wanted to keep command of their armies, to do their scheming from beyond the city’s walls.) There was intense interest in seeing what the great man looked like, for the Roman Alexander, as Pompey’s followers called him, had been away fighting for nearly seven years. Some wondered how much he might have changed; others—of whom I was one—had never set eyes on him at all. Cicero had already heard from Palicanus that Pompey intended to set up his headquarters in the Villa Publica, the government guest house next to the voting enclosures, and that was where we made for—Cicero, Quintus, Lucius, and I.

The place was encircled with a double cordon of soldiers, and by the time we had fought our way through the crowds to the perimeter wall, no one was being allowed into the grounds without authorization. Cicero was most offended that none of the guards had ever heard of him, and we were lucky that Palicanus was at that moment passing close to the gate and was able to fetch his son-in-law, the legionnaire commander Gabinius, to vouch for us. Once we were inside we found that half of official Rome was already strolling around its shaded colonnades, humming with curiosity at being this close to power.

“Pompey the Great arrived in the middle of the night,” Palicanus informed us, adding grandly: “The consuls are with him now.” He promised to return with more information as soon as he had any, then disappeared, self-importantly, between the sentries into the House.

Several hours passed, during which there was no further sign of Palicanus. Instead we noted the messengers rushing in and out; hungrily witnessed food being delivered; saw the consuls leave, and then watched Catulus and Isauricus, the elder statesmen, arrive. Waiting senators, knowing Cicero to be a fervent partisan of Pompey and believing him to be in his inner counsels, kept coming up to him and asking what was really happening. “All in good time,” he would reply, “all in good time.” Eventually I guess he must have found this formula embarrassing, for he sent me off to find him a stool, and when I returned, he set it against a pillar, leaned back, and closed his eyes. Toward the middle of the afternoon, Hortensius arrived, squeezing his way through the curious onlookers held back by the soldiers, and was admitted immediately into the villa. When he was followed soon afterwards by the three Metellus brothers, it was impossible even for Cicero to pretend this was anything other than a humiliation. Brother Quintus was dispatched to see if he could pick up any gossip outside the Senate House, while Cicero ordered me for the twentieth time to try to find Palicanus or Afranius or Gabinius—anyone who could get him into that meeting.

I hung around the crowded entrance, trying to see over all the jostling. A messenger came out and briefly left the door half open, and for a moment I glimpsed white-robed figures, laughing and talking, standing around a heavy marble table with documents spread across it. But then I was distracted by a commotion from the street. With shouts of “Hail, Imperator!” the gate was swung open and, flanked by bodyguards, in stepped Crassus. He took off his plumed helmet and handed it to one of his lictors, wiped his forehead, and looked around him. His gaze fell upon Cicero. He gave him a slight nod accompanied by another of his plain man’s smiles, and that was one of the few occasions, I should say, when Cicero was entirely lost for words. Then Crassus swept his scarlet cloak around him—rather magnificently, it must be admitted—and marched into the Villa Publica, while Cicero plonked down heavily on his stool.

I have frequently observed this curious aspect of power, that it is often when one is physically closest to its source that one is least well-informed as to what is actually going on. For example, I have seen senators obliged to step out of the Senate chamber and dispatch their slaves to the vegetable market to find out what was happening in the city they were supposedly running. Or I have known of generals, surrounded by legates and ambassadors, who have been reduced to intercepting passing shepherds to discover the latest events on the battlefield. So it was that afternoon with Cicero, who sat within twenty feet of the room in which Rome was being carved up like a cooked chicken, but who had to hear the news of what had been decided from Quintus, who had picked it up from a magistrate in the Forum, who had heard it from a Senate clerk.

“It is bad,” said Quintus, although one could already tell that from his face. “Pompey for consul and the rights of the tribunes restored, and with no opposition to be offered by the aristocrats. But in return—listen to this—
in return
Hortensius and Quintus Metellus are to be consuls in the following year, with the full support of Pompey, while Lucius Metellus is to replace Verres as governor of Sicily. Finally, Crassus—
Crassus!
—is to rule with Pompey as joint consul, and both their armies to be dissolved on the day they take office.”

“But I should have been in there,” said Cicero, staring with dismay at the villa. “
I should have been in there!
”

“Marcus,” said his brother sadly, putting his hand on his shoulder, “none of them would have you.”

Cicero looked stunned at the scale of this reversal—himself excluded, his enemies rewarded, Crassus elevated to the consulship—but then he shook his shoulder free and made angrily toward the doors. And perhaps his career might have been ended there by the sword of one of Pompey’s sentries, for I believe, in his desperation, Cicero had resolved to force his way through to the negotiating table and demand his share. But it was too late. The big men, their deal struck, were already coming out, their aides scampering ahead of them, their guards stamping to attention as they passed. Crassus emerged first, and then from the shadows Pompey, his identity obvious not only by the aura of power around him—the way the proximate air seemed almost to crackle as he moved—but also by the cast of his features. He had a broad face, wide cheekbones, and thick wavy hair that rose in a quiff, like the prow of a ship. It was a face full of weight and command, and he possessed the body to go with it, wide shoulders and a strong chest—the torso of a wrestler. I could see why, when he was younger and famed for his ruthlessness, he had been called the Butcher Boy.

And so off they went, Baldhead and the Butcher Boy, noticeably neither talking nor even looking at each other, heading toward the gate. A stampede of senators, seeing what was happening, set off in pursuit, and we were swept along in the rush, borne out of the Villa Publica and into what felt like a solid wall of noise and heat. Twenty thousand people must have gathered on the Field of Mars that afternoon, all bellowing their approval. A narrow avenue had been cleared by the soldiers, straining arms chain-linked at the elbows, feet scrabbling in the dust to hold back the crowd. It was just wide enough for Pompey and Crassus to walk abreast, and they made slow progress toward the tribunal where the officials traditionally stand at election time. Pompey heaved himself up first, to a renewed surge of applause, which he basked in for a while, turning his wide and beaming face this way and that, like a cat in sunshine. Then he reached down and hauled Crassus up after him. At this demonstration of unity between the two notorious rivals, the crowd let out another roar, and it came again and even louder when Pompey seized hold of Crassus’s hand and raised it above his head.

“What a sickening spectacle,” said Cicero. He had to shout into my ear to make himself heard. “The consulship demanded and conceded at the point of the sword. We are witnessing the beginning of the end of the republic, Tiro, remember my words!” I could not help reflecting, however, that if
he
had been in that conference, and
he
had helped engineer this joint ticket, he would now be hailing it as a masterpiece of statecraft.

Pompey waved at the crowd for quiet, then began speaking in his parade-ground voice. “People of Rome, the leaders of the Senate have graciously conveyed to me the offer of a triumph, and I am pleased to accept it. They have also told me that I will be allowed to stand as a candidate for the consulship, and I am pleased to accept that as well. The only thing that pleases me more is that my old friend Marcus Licinus Crassus will be my colleague.” He concluded by promising that the following year he would hold a great festival of games, dedicated to Hercules, in honor of his victories in Spain.

Well, these were fine words, no doubt, but he said them all too quickly, forgetting to leave the necessary pause after every sentence, which meant those few who had managed to hear his words had no opportunity to repeat them to those behind who had not. I doubt if more than a few hundred out of that vast assembly knew what he was saying, but they cheered in any case, and they cheered even more when Crassus immediately, and cunningly, upstaged him.