Dictator

Cicero nodded and rose. ‘We none of us needs to be reminded,’ he began, ‘least of all the gallant Nepos, of the frightful violence that gripped the city yesterday – violence which has at its core a shortage of that most basic of human needs, bread. Some of us believe it was an ill day when our citizens were granted a free dole of corn in the first place, for it is human nature that what starts as gratitude quickly becomes dependency and ends as entitlement. This is the pass we have reached. I do not say we should rescind Clodius’s law – it is too late for that: the public’s morals are already corrupted, as no doubt he intended. But we must at least ensure that the supply of bread is continuous if we are to have civil order. And there is only one man in our state with the authority and genius of organisation to ensure such a thing, and that is Pompey the Great. Therefore I wish to propose the following resolution …’

And here he read out the draft bill I have already quoted, and that part of the chamber which was packed with Pompey’s lieutenants rose in acclamation. The rest sat solemn-faced, or muttered angrily, for they had always feared Pompey’s lust for power. The cheering was heard outside and taken up by the crowds waiting in the Forum. When they learned that it was Cicero who had proposed the new law, they started clamouring for him to come and address them from the rostra, and all the tribunes – save for two supporters of Clodius – duly sent an invitation to him to speak. When the request was read out in the Senate, Cicero protested that he was not prepared for such an honour. (In fact I had with me a speech he had already written out, and which I was able to give him just before he mounted the steps to the platform.)

He was met by a tremendous ovation, and it was some time before he could make himself heard. When the applause died away, he started to speak, and had just reached the passage in which he thanked the people for their support – Had I experienced nothing but an unruffled tranquillity, I should have missed the incredible and well-nigh superhuman transports of delight which your kindness now permits me to enjoy – when who should appear at the edge of the crowd but Pompey. He stood ostentatiously alone – not that he had any need of bodyguards when the Forum was full of his gladiators – and pretended that he had come merely as an ordinary citizen to listen to what Cicero had to say. But of course the people would not permit that, so he allowed himself to be thrust forward to the rostra, which he mounted, and where he embraced Cicero. I had forgotten what a massive physical presence he was: that majestic torso and manly bearing, the famous thick quiff of still-dark hair rising like the beak of a warship above his broad and handsome face.

The occasion demanded flattery, and Cicero rose to it. ‘Here is a man,’ he said, lifting Pompey’s arm, ‘who has had, has, and will have, no rival in virtue, sagacity and renown. He gave to me all that he had given to the republic, what no other has ever given to a private friend – safety, security, dignity. To him, fellow citizens, I owe a debt such as it is scarce lawful for one human being to owe to another.’

The applause was prolonged, and Pompey’s beam of pleasure was as wide and warm as the sun.

Afterwards he consented to walk back with Cicero to Quintus’s house and take a cup of wine. He made no reference to Cicero’s exile, no enquiries after his health, no apology for his failure years before to help Cicero stand up to Clodius, which was what had opened the door to the whole disaster in the first place. He talked only of himself and of the future, childlike in his eager anticipation of his grain commissionership and the opportunities it would give him for travel and patronage. ‘And you, of course, my dear Cicero, must be one of my fifteen legates – whichever one you like, wherever you want to go. Sardinia? Sicily? Egypt? Africa?’

‘Thank you,’ said Cicero. ‘It is generous of you, but I must decline. My priority now has to be my family – restoring us to our property, comforting my wife and children, revenging us on our enemies and trying to recover our fortune.’

‘You’ll recover your fortune quicker in the grain business than any other, I assure you.’

‘Even so, I must remain in Rome.’

The broad face fell. ‘I’m disappointed, I can’t pretend otherwise. I want the name of Cicero attached to this commission. It will add weight. What about you?’ he said, turning to Quintus. ‘You could do it, I suppose.’