Imperium

“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.