Dictator

Antony had dismissed the Senate until the first day of June, and gradually the great villas around the Bay of Naples began to fill with the leading men of Rome. Most of the new arrivals, like Hirtius and Pansa, were still in a state of shock at Caesar’s death. The pair were supposed to take over as consuls at the end of the year, and as part of their preparation they asked Cicero if he would give them further lessons in oratory. He didn’t much want to – it was a distraction from his writing, and he found their doleful talk about Caesar irritating – but in the end he was too easy-going to refuse. He took them on to the beach to learn elocution as Demosthenes had done, by speaking clearly through a mouth full of pebbles, and to learn voice projection by delivering their speeches into the crashing waves. Over the dinner table they were full of stories of Antony’s high-handedness: of how he had tricked Calpurnia on the night of the assassination into giving him custody of her late husband’s private papers as well as his fortune; of how he now pretended these documents contained various edicts that had the force of law, whereas in fact he had forged them in return for enormous bribes.

Cicero said, ‘So he has his hands on all the money? But I thought three quarters of Caesar’s fortune was supposed to go to this boy Octavian?’

Hirtius rolled his eyes. ‘He’ll be lucky!’

Pansa added, ‘He’ll have to come and get it first, and I wouldn’t give much for his chances.’

Two days after this exchange, I was sheltering from the rain in the portico, reading the elder Cato’s treatise on agriculture, when the steward came up to me to announce that L. Cornelius Balbus had arrived to see Cicero.

‘Then tell the master he’s here.’

‘But I’m not sure that I should – he gave me strict instructions that he was not to be disturbed, no matter who came to call.’

I sighed and laid aside my book: Balbus was one man who would have to be seen. He was the Spaniard who had handled Caesar’s business affairs in Rome. He was well known to Cicero, who had once defended him in the courts against an attempt to strip him of his citizenship. He was now in his middle fifties and owned a huge villa nearby. I found him waiting in the tablinum with a toga-clad youth I took at first to be his son or grandson, except when I looked more closely I saw that he couldn’t be, for Balbus was swarthy whereas this boy had damp blond hair badly cut in a basin style; he was also rather short and slender, pretty-faced but with a pasty complexion pitted by acne.

‘Ah, Tiro,’ cried Balbus, ‘will you kindly drag Cicero away from his books? Just tell him I have brought Caesar’s adopted son to see him – Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus – that ought to do it.’

And the young man smiled shyly at me, showing gapped uneven teeth.

Naturally Cicero came at once, overwhelmed by curiosity to meet this exotic creature, seemingly dropped into the tumult of Roman politics from the sky. Balbus introduced the young man, who bowed and said, ‘It is one of the greatest honours of my life to meet you. I have read all your speeches and works of philosophy. I have dreamed of this moment for years.’ His voice was pleasant: soft and well educated.

Cicero fairly preened at the compliment. ‘You are very kind to say it. Now please tell me, before we go further: what am I to call you?’

‘In public I insist on Caesar. To my friends and family I am Octavian.’

‘Well, since at my age I would find another Caesar hard to get used to, perhaps it could be Octavian for me as well, if I may?’

The young man bowed again. ‘I would be honoured.’