Dictator

We left Rome at first light – Terentia, Tullia and Marcus all in the same carriage, along with Cicero, who was in great good humour – and made quick progress, stopping first for a night at Tusculum, which Cicero was glad to find habitable again, and then at the family estate in Arpinum, where we remained for a week. Finally from those cold high peaks of the Apennines we descended south to Campania.

With every mile the clouds of winter seemed to lift, the sky became bluer, the temperature warmer, the air more fragrant with the scent of pines and herbs, and when we joined the coastal road, the breeze off the sea was balmy. Cumae was then a much smaller and quieter town than it is today. At the Acropolis I gave a description of our destination and was directed by a priest to the eastern side of the Lucrine Lake, to a spot low in the hills, looking out across the lagoon and the narrow spit of land to the variegated blueness of the Mediterranean. The villa itself was small and dilapidated, with half a dozen elderly slaves to look after it. The wind blew through open walls; a section of the roof was missing. But it was worth every discomfort simply for the panorama. Down on the lake, little rowing boats moved among the oyster beds, while from the garden at the back there rose a majestic view of the lush green pyramid of Vesuvius. Cicero was enchanted, and set to work at once with the local builders, commissioning a great programme of renovation and redecoration. Marcus played on the beach with his tutor. Terentia sat on the terrace and sewed. Tullia read her Greek. It was a family holiday of a sort they had not taken for many years.

There was one puzzle, however. That whole stretch of coast from Cumae to Puteoli, then as now, was dotted with villas belonging to members of the Senate. Naturally Cicero assumed that once word spread he was in residence, he would begin to receive callers. But nobody came. At night he stood on the terrace and looked up and down the seashore and peered up into the hills and complained he could see hardly any lights. Where were the parties, the dinners? He patrolled the beach, a mile in either direction, and not once did he spot a senatorial toga.

‘Something must be happening,’ he said to Terentia. ‘Where are they all?’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied, ‘but speaking for myself, I am happy there is no one with whom you can discuss politics.’

The answer came on our fifth morning.

I was on the terrace answering Cicero’s correspondence when I noticed that a small group of horsemen had turned off the coastal road and were coming up the track towards the house. My immediate thought was Clodius! I stood to get a better view and saw to my dismay that the sun was glinting on helmets and breastplates. Five riders: soldiers.

Terentia and the children had gone off for the day to visit the sibyl who was said to live in a jar in a cave at Cumae. I ran inside to alert Cicero, and by the time I found him – he was choosing the colour scheme for the dining room – the horsemen were already clattering into the courtyard. Their leader dismounted and took off his helmet. He was a fearsome apparition: dust-rimed, like some harbinger of death. The whiteness of his nose and forehead was in contrast to the grime of the rest of his face. He looked as if he wore a mask. But I knew him. He was a senator, albeit not a very distinguished one – a member of that tame, dependable class of pedarii who never spoke but merely voted with their feet. Lucius Vibullius Rufus was his name. He was one of Pompey’s officers from Pompey’s home region of Picenum naturally.

‘Could I have a word?’ he said gruffly.

‘Of course,’ said Cicero ‘Come inside, all of you. Come and have something to eat and drink, I insist.’

Vibullius said, ‘I’ll come in. They’ll wait out here and make sure we’re not disturbed.’ He moved very stiffly, a clay effigy come to life.

Cicero said, ‘You look all in. How far have you ridden?’

‘From Luca.’

‘Luca?’ repeated Cicero. ‘That must be three hundred miles!’

‘More like three hundred and fifty. We’ve been on the road a week.’ As he lowered himself to a seat, he gave off a shower of dust. ‘There’s been a meeting concerning you, and I’ve been sent to inform you of its conclusions.’ He glanced at me. ‘I need to speak in confidence.’

Cicero, baffled and plainly wondering if he was dealing with a madman, said, ‘He’s my secretary. You can say all you have to say in front of him. What meeting?’

‘As you wish.’ Vibullius tugged off his gloves, unbuckled the side of his breastplate, reached under the metal and pulled out a document, which he carefully unwrapped. ‘The reason I’ve come from Luca is because that’s where Pompey, Caesar and Crassus have been meeting.’

Cicero frowned. ‘No, that’s impossible. Pompey is going to Sardinia – he told me so himself.’