Dictator

Cicero feared that if he stayed on the island he would be murdered – if not by Gnaeus then by one of his associates. Accordingly we left that same day. We could not sail back north again in case the coast had fallen into enemy hands. Instead we found ourselves drifting further south, until after several days we arrived in Patrae, the port where I had spent my illness. As soon as the ship docked, Cicero sent word by one of his lictors to his friend Curius to say that we were in the city, and without waiting for a reply, we hired litters and porters to transport us and our baggage to his house.

I believe the lictor must have lost his way, or perhaps he was tempted by the bars of Patrae, for all six lictors in their boredom since our departure from Cilicia had fallen into the habit of drinking heavily. At any rate, we arrived at the villa before our messenger did, only to be told that Curius was away for two days on business, at which point we heard male conversation emanating from the interior. The voices sounded familiar. We glanced at one another, neither of us quite believing what we were hearing, then hurried past the steward and into the tablinum to discover Quintus, Marcus and Quintus Junior seated in a huddle. They turned to stare at us in amazement, and I sensed at once a certain embarrassment. I am fairly certain they must have been speaking ill of us – or rather of Cicero. This awkwardness, I should add, was over in an instant – Cicero never even noticed it – and we fell upon one another and kissed and embraced with the sincerest affection. I was shocked by how haggard they looked. There was something haunted about them, as there had been with the other survivors of Pharsalus, although they tried not to show it.

Quintus said, ‘This is the most wonderful good fortune! We’d engaged a ship and were planning to set off for Corcyra tomorrow, having heard that the Senate was assembling there. And to think we might have missed you! What happened? Did the conference end earlier than expected?’

Cicero said, ‘No, the conference is still going on, as far as I know.’

‘But you’re not with them?’

‘Let us discuss that later. First let us hear what happened to you.’

They took it in turns to tell their story, like runners in a relay race handing on the baton – first the month-long march in pursuit of Caesar’s army and the occasional skirmishes along the way, and then at last the great confrontation at Pharsalus. On the eve of the battle Pompey had dreamed that he was in Rome entering the Temple of Venus the Victorious, and that the people were applauding him as he offered the goddess the spoils of war. He awoke content, thinking this a good omen, but then someone pointed out that Caesar claimed direct descent from Venus, and immediately he decided the meaning of the dream was the opposite of what he’d hoped. ‘From that moment on,’ said Quintus, ‘he seemed resigned to losing and acted accordingly.’ The Quinti had been in the second line and so had avoided the worst of the fighting. Marcus, though, had been in the middle of the struggle. He reckoned he had killed at least four of the enemy – one with his javelin, three with his sword – and had been confident of victory until the cohorts of Caesar’s Tenth Legion had seemed to rise up out of the ground before them. ‘Our units lost formation: it was massacre, Father.’ It had taken them the best part of a month, much of it spent living rough and dodging Caesar’s patrols, to escape to the western coast.

‘And Pompey?’ asked Cicero. ‘Is there news of him?’

‘None,’ replied Quintus, ‘but I believe I can guess where he went: east, to Lesbos. That’s where he sent Cornelia to await news of his victory. In defeat I’m certain he would have gone to her for consolation – you know what he’s like with his wives. Caesar must have guessed the same. He’s after him like a bounty hunter in pursuit of a runaway slave. My money is on Caesar in that particular race. And if he catches him, or kills him, what do you think that will that mean for the war?’

Cicero said, ‘Oh, the war will go on, it seems, whatever happens – but it will continue without me,’ and then he told them what had happened at Corcyra. I am sure he did not mean to sound flippant. It was simply that he was happy to have found his family alive, and naturally that light-hearted mood coloured his remarks. But as he repeated, with some satisfaction, his quip about eagles and jackdaws, and mocked the very idea that he should take command of “this losing cause”, and derided the bone-headedness of Gnaeus Pompey – ‘He makes even his father look intelligent’ – I could see Quintus’s jaw beginning to work back and forth in irritation; even Marcus’s expression was clenched with disapproval.

‘So that’s it, then?’ said Quintus in a cold, flat voice. ‘As far as this family is concerned, it’s over?’

‘Do you disagree?’

‘I feel I should have been consulted.’

‘How could I consult you? You weren’t there.’