Dictator

I thought I might find Dolabella attending the Senate, but no one seemed to know where it was or even if it was in session these days. In the end I went to the address on the Palatine that Tullia had given me, which was where she said she had last lived with her husband, and there I found Dolabella in the company of an elegant, expensively dressed woman who I later discovered was Metella, daughter of Clodia. She behaved as if she was the mistress of the house, ordering refreshment for me and a chair to be brought, and I saw at a glance the hopelessness of Tullia’s situation.

As for Dolabella, he was striking for three attributes: the fierce handsomeness of his features, the obvious strength of his physique, and the shortness of his stature. (Cicero once joked, ‘Who has tied my son-in-law to that sword?’) This pocket Adonis, for whom I had long tended an intense dislike because of the way he treated Tullia, even though I had never met him, read Cicero’s invitation and declared that he would return with me immediately. He said, ‘My father-in-law writes here that this message is brought to me by his trusted friend Tiro. Would that be the Tiro who created the famous shorthand system? Then I am delighted to meet you! My wife has always talked of you most fondly, as a kind of second father to her. May I shake your hand?’ And such was the charm of the rogue that I felt my hostility immediately begin to wilt.

He asked Metella to send his slaves after him with his luggage, and then joined me in the carriage for the journey to Tusculum. Most of the way he slept. By the time we reached the villa, the slaves were preparing to serve dinner, and Cicero ordered an extra place to be set. Dolabella made straight for Tullia’s couch and reclined with his head in her lap. After a while I noticed she began to stroke his hair.

It was a fair spring evening with the nightingales calling to one another, and the incongruity between the charm of the setting and the horror of the story Dolabella unfolded made it all the more unsettling. First there was the battle itself, named Thapsus, at which Scipio had commanded the republican force of seventy thousand men in alliance with King Juba of the Numidians. They had used a shock force of elephant cavalry to try to break Caesar’s line, but volleys of arrows and flaming missiles from the ballistae had caused the wretched beasts to panic, turn and trample their own infantry. Thereafter it was the same story as at Pharsalus: the republican formations had broken on the iron discipline of Caesar’s legionaries, only this time Caesar had decreed there would be no prisoners taken: all ten thousand who surrendered were massacred.

‘And Cato?’ asked Cicero.

‘Cato was not present at the battle but was three days’ journey away, commanding the garrison at Utica. Caesar went there straight away. I rode with him at the head of the army. He wanted very much to capture Cato alive so that he could pardon him.’

‘A wasted mission, I could have told you that: Cato would never have accepted a pardon from Caesar.’

‘Caesar was sure he would. But you are right, as always: Cato killed himself the night before we arrived.’

‘How did he do it?’

Dolabella pulled a face. ‘I’ll tell you if you really want to know, but it’s not a fit subject for a woman’s ears.’

Tullia said firmly, ‘I’m quite strong enough, thank you.’

‘Even so, I think it would be better if you withdrew.’

‘I shall certainly do no such thing!’

‘And what does your father say about that?’

‘Tullia is stronger than she looks,’ said Cicero, adding pointedly, ‘She has had to be.’

‘Well, you asked for it. According to Cato’s slaves, when he learned that Caesar would arrive the next day, Cato bathed and dined, discussed Plato with his companions, and retired to his room. Then when he was alone he took his sword and slashed himself just here.’ Dolabella reached up and drew a finger under Tullia’s breastbone. ‘All his guts spilled out.’

Cicero, squeamish as ever, winced, but Tullia said, ‘That’s not so bad.’

‘Ah,’ said Dolabella, ‘but that’s not the end of the story. He failed to make the wound fatal and the sword slipped out of his bloodied hand. His attendants heard his groans and rushed in. They summoned a doctor. The doctor arrived and pushed his intestines back in to the cavity and sewed up the wound. I might add that Cato was entirely conscious throughout. He promised he would not make another attempt, and his staff believed him, although as a precaution they took his sword away. As soon as they had gone, he tore the wound open with his fingers and dragged his intestines out again. That killed him.’