Dictator

By this time Cicero was heartily wishing he had never agreed to the visit: ‘Where am I to find quail in December? Does he think I am Lucullus?’ Nevertheless, he was determined, as he put it, ‘to show Caesar that we know how to live’, and took pains to provide the finest of everything, from scented oils for the bathroom to Falernian wine for the table. Then, just before the Dictator was due to walk through the door, the ever-anxious Philippus hurried round with the news that M. Mamurra, Caesar’s chief engineer – the man who had built the bridge across the Rhine, among many other amazing feats – had died of apoplexy. For a moment it looked as if the occasion might be ruined. But when Caesar swept in, red-faced from the exertion of his walk, and Cicero broke the news to him, his expression did not even flicker.

‘That’s too bad for him. Which way is my bath?’

No further mention was made of Mamurra – and yet, as Cicero observed, he must have been one of Caesar’s closest comrades for more than a decade. Oddly, that brief insight into the coldness of Caesar’s character is the thing I remember most clearly of his visit, for I was soon distracted by the house being full of noisy men, spread between three dining rooms, and naturally I was not at the same table as the Dictator. In my room they were all soldiers – a rough crowd, polite enough to begin with but soon drunk, and there was a lot of trooping in and out between courses to vomit on the beach. All the talk was of Parthia and the forthcoming campaign. Afterwards I asked Cicero what had passed between him and Caesar.

He said, ‘It was really surprisingly pleasant. We avoided politics and talked mostly of literature. He said that he had just read our Disputations and was full of compliments – “Except,” he said, “I have to tell you that I am the living refutation of your principal proposition.” “And what is that?” “You claim that one can only conquer one’s fear of death by living a good life. Well, according to your definition I have hardly done that, and yet I have no fear of dying. What is your answer?” To which I replied that for a man with no fear of dying, he certainly travelled with a large bodyguard.’

‘Did he laugh?’

‘No he did not! He turned very serious, as if I had insulted him, and said that as the head of state he had a responsibility to take proper precautions, that if anything happened to him there would be chaos, but this didn’t mean that he was afraid to die – far from it. So I probed a little further into the subject and asked why it was that he was so unafraid: did he believe the soul was eternal, or did he think we all die with our bodies?’

‘And what was his reply?’

‘He said that he didn’t know about anyone else, but that obviously he wouldn’t die along with his body because he was a god. I looked to see if he was joking but I’m not sure that he was. At that moment, I tell you honestly, I ceased to envy him all his power and glory. It has driven him mad.’

The only time I saw Caesar again that night was when he left. He emerged from the principal dining room, leaning on Cicero and laughing at some remark he had just made. He appeared slightly flushed with wine, which was rare for him as he usually drank in moderation, if at all. His soldiers formed into lines as an honour guard and he lurched off into the night supported by Philippus and followed by his officers.

The next morning Cicero wrote an account of the visit to Atticus: Strange that so onerous a guest should leave a memory not disagreeable. But once is enough. He is not the kind of person to whom one says, ‘Do drop round the next time you are in the neighbourhood.’

As far as I know, that was the last time Cicero and Caesar ever spoke to one another.

On the eve of our return to Rome, I rode over to look at my farm. It was difficult to find, almost invisible from the coastal road, at the end of a long track leading up into the hills: an ancient, ivy-covered building commanding a wonderful panorama of the island of Capri. There was an olive grove and a small vineyard surrounded by low dry-stone walls. Goats and sheep grazed in the fields and on the nearby slopes; the tinkle of their neck bells rang soft as wind chimes; otherwise the place was entirely silent.