Imperium:

by Robert Harris

  We had anticipated trouble, and Quintus had taken the precaution of stationing some of our heftier supporters immediately behind and in front of his brother. As we approached the voting pens I felt increasingly worried, for I could see Catilina and his followers up ahead, waiting beside the returning officer’s tent. Some of these ruffians jeered us as we arrived at the enclosure, but Catilina himself, after a brief and contemptuous glance in Cicero’s direction, resumed talking to Hybrida. I muttered to young Frugi that I was surprised he did not at least put on a show of intimidation – that, after all, was his usual tactic – to which Frugi, who was no fool, responded: ‘He does not feel he needs to – he is so confident of victory.’ His words filled me with unease.

  But then a very remarkable thing happened. Cicero and all the other senators seeking either the consulship or the praetorship – perhaps two dozen men – were standing in the small area reserved for the candidates, surrounded by a low sheep fence to separate them from their supporters. The presiding consul, Marcius Figulus, was talking to the augur, checking that all was propitious for the ballot to begin, when just at that moment Hortensius appeared, followed by a retinue of about twenty men. The crowd parted to let him through. He approached the fence and called to Cicero, who interrupted his conversation with one of the other candidates – Cornificius, I think it was – and went over to him. This in itself surprised people, for it was known that there was little love lost between the two old rivals, and there was a stir among the onlookers; Catilina and Hybrida certainly both turned to stare. For a moment or two, Cicero and Hortensius regarded one another, then simultaneously they nodded, and each reached out and slowly shook the hand of the other. No word was uttered, and with the handclasp still in place, Hortensius half turned to the men behind him and raised Cicero’s arm above his head. A great shout of applause, mingled with some boos and groans, broke out from the watching crowd, for there was no doubt what the gesture meant: I certainly never expected to see anything like it. The aristocrats were supporting Cicero! Immediately, Hortensius’s attendants turned and disappeared into the throng, presumably to spread the word among the nobles’ agents in the centuries that they were to switch their support. I risked a look at Catilina and saw on his face an expression of puzzlement rather than anything else, for the incident, though obviously significant – people were still buzzing about it – was so fleeting that Hortensius was already walking away. An instant later, Figulus called to the candidates to follow him to the platform so that the voting could begin.

  YOU CAN ALWAYS spot a fool, for he is the man who will tell you he knows who is going to win an election. But an election is a living thing – you might almost say, the most vigorously alive thing there is – with thousands upon thousands of brains and limbs and eyes and thoughts and desires, and it will wriggle and turn and run off in directions no one ever predicted, sometimes just for the joy of proving the wiseacres wrong. This much I learnt on the Field of Mars that day, when the entrails were inspected, the skies were checked for suspicious flights of birds, the blessings of the gods were invoked, all epileptics were asked to leave the field (for in those days an attack of epilepsy, or morbus comitialis, automatically rendered proceedings void), a legion was deployed on the approaches to Rome to prevent a surprise attack, the list of candidates was read, the trumpets were sounded, the red flag was hoisted over the Janiculum Hill, and the Roman people began to cast their ballots.

  The honour of being the first of the one hundred and ninety-three centuries to vote was decided by lot, and to be a member of this centuria praerogativa, as it was known, was considered a rare blessing, for its decision often set the pattern for what followed. Only the richest centuries were eligible for the draw, and I remember how I stood and watched as that year’s winners, a stalwart collection of merchants and bankers, filed self-importantly over the wooden bridge and disappeared behind the screens. Their ballots were quickly counted, Figulus came to the front of his tribunal and announced that they had put Cicero in first place and Catilina second. At once a gasp went up, for all those fools I was speaking of had predicted it would be Catilina first and Hybrida second, and then the gasp quickly turned into cheers as Cicero’s supporters, realising what had happened, began a noisy demonstration which spread across the Field of Mars. Cicero was standing under the awning beneath the consul’s platform. He permitted himself only the most fleeting of smiles, and then, such was the actor in the man, he composed his features into an expression of dignity and authority appropriate to a Roman consul. Catilina – who was as far away from Cicero as it was possible to get, with all the other candidates lined up between them – looked as if he had been struck in the face. Only Hybrida’s expression was blank – whether because he was drunk as usual or too stupid to realise what was happening I cannot say. As for Crassus and Caesar, they had been loitering and chatting together near to the place where the voters emerged after casting their ballots, and I could have laughed aloud as they looked at one another in disbelief. They held a hurried consultation and then darted off in different directions, no doubt to demand how the expenditure of twenty million sesterces had failed to secure the centuria praerogativa.

  If Crassus really had purchased the eight thousand votes which Ranunculus had estimated, that would normally have been enough to swing the election. But this ballot was unusually heavy, thanks to the interest aroused all across Italy, and as the voting went on throughout the morning it became apparent that the briber-in-chief had fallen just short of his target. Cicero had always had the equestrian order firmly behind him, plus the Pompeians and the lower orders. Now that Hortensius, Catulus, Metellus, Isauricus and the Lucullus brothers were delivering the blocs of voters controlled by the aristocrats, he was winning a vote from every century, either as their first or second preference, and soon the only question was who would be his consular colleague. Throughout the morning, it looked as if it would be Catilina, with my notes (which I found the other day) showing that at noon the voting was:

  Cicero

  81 centuries

  Catilina

  34 centuries

  Hybrida

  29 centuries

  Sacerdos

  9 centuries

  Longinus

  5 centuries

  Cornificius

  2 centuries

  But then came the voting of the six centuries composed exclusively of the aristocrats, the sex suffragia, and they really put the knife into Catilina, so that if I retain one image above all from that memorable day it is of the patricians, having cast their ballots, filing past the candidates. Because the Field of Mars lies outside the city limits, there was nothing to stop Lucius Lucullus, and Quintus Metellus with him, both in their scarlet cloaks and military uniforms, turning out to vote, and their appearance caused a sensation – but nothing like as great an uproar as greeted the announcement that their century had voted Cicero first and then Hybrida. After them came Isauricus, the elder Curio, Aemilius Alba, Claudius Pulcher, Junius Servilius – the husband of Cato’s sister, Servilia – old Metellus Pius, the pontifex maximus, too sick to walk but carried in a litter, followed by his adopted son, Scipio Nasica … And again and again the announcement was the same: Cicero first, and next Hybrida; Cicero first, and next Hybrida; Cicero first … When, finally, Hortensius and Catulus passed by, it was noticeable that neither man could bring himself to look Catilina in the eye, and once it was declared that their century, too, had voted for Cicero and Hybrida, Catilina must have realised his chances were finished. At that point Cicero had eighty-seven centuries to Hybrida’s thirty-five and Catilina’s thirty-four – for the first time in the day, Hybrida had eased in front of his running-mate, but more importantly, the aristocrats had publicly turned on one of their own, and in the most brutal manner. After that, Catilina’s candidacy was effectively dead, although one had to give him high marks for his conduct. I had anticipated that he would storm off in a rage, or lunge at Cicero and try to murder him with his bare hands. But i
nstead he stood throughout that long, hot day, as the citizens went past him and his hopes of the consulship sank with the sun, and he maintained a look of imperturbable calm, even when Figulus came forward for the final time to read the result of the election:

  Cicero

  193 centuries

  Hybrida

  102 centuries

  Catilina

  65 centuries

  Sacerdos

  12 centuries

  Longinus

  9 centuries

  Cornificius

  5 centuries

  We cheered until our throats ached, although Cicero himself seemed very preoccupied for a man who had just achieved his life’s ambition, and I felt oddly uneasy. He was now permanently wearing what I later came to recognise as his ‘consular look’: his chin held ever-so-slightly high, his mouth set in a determined line, and his eyes seemingly directed towards some glorious point in the distance. Hybrida held out his hand to Catilina, but Catilina ignored it, and stepped down from the podium like a man in a trance. He was ruined, bankrupt – surely it would be only a year or two before he was thrown out of the senate altogether. I searched around for Crassus and Caesar, but they had quit the field hours earlier, once Cicero had passed the number of centuries needed for victory. So, too, had the aristocrats. They had gone home for the day the instant Catilina had been safely disposed of, like men who had been required to perform some distasteful duty – put down a favourite hunting-dog, say, which had become rabid – and who now wanted nothing more than the quiet comfort of their own hearths.

  THUS DID MARCUS Tullius Cicero, at forty-two, the youngest age allowable, achieve the supreme imperium of the Roman consulship – and achieve it, amazingly, by a unanimous vote of the centuries, and as a ‘new man’, without family, fortune or force of arms to assist him: a feat never accomplished before or afterwards. We returned that evening from the Field of Mars to his modest home, and once he had thanked his supporters and sent them away, and received the congratulations of his slaves, he ordered that the couches from the dining room be carried up on to the roof, so that he could dine beneath the open sky, as he had done on that night – so long ago it seemed – when he had first disclosed his ambition to become consul. I was honoured to be invited to join the family group, for Cicero was insistent that he would never have achieved his goal without me. For a delirious moment I thought he might be about to award me my freedom and give me that farm right there and then, but he said nothing about it, and it did not seem the appropriate time or setting to bring it up. He was on one couch with Terentia, Quintus was with Pomponia, Tullia was with her fiancé, Frugi, and I reclined with Atticus. I can recall little at my great age of what we ate or drank, or any of that, but I do remember that we each went over our particular memories of the day, and especially of that extraordinary spectacle of the aristocracy voting en masse for Cicero.

  ‘Tell me, Marcus,’ said Atticus, in his worldly way, once plenty of good wine had been consumed, ‘how did you manage to persuade them? Because, although I know you are a genius with words, these men despised you – absolutely loathed everything you said and stood for. What did you offer them, besides stopping Catilina?’

  ‘Obviously,’ replied Cicero, ‘I had to promise that I will lead the opposition to Crassus and Caesar and the tribunes when they publish this land reform bill of theirs.’

  ‘That will be quite a task,’ said Quintus.

  ‘And that is all?’ persisted Atticus. (It is my belief, looking back, that he was behaving like a good cross-examiner, and that he knew the answer to the question before he asked it, probably from his friend Hortensius.) ‘You really agreed to nothing else? Because you were in there for many hours.’

  Cicero winced. ‘Well, I did have to undertake,’ he said reluctantly, ‘to propose in the senate, as consul, that Lucullus should be awarded a triumph, and also Quintus Metellus.’

  Now at last I understood why Cicero had seemed so grim and preoccupied when he left his conference with the aristocrats. Quintus put down his plate and regarded him with undisguised horror. ‘So first they want you to turn the people against you by blocking land reform, and then they demand that you should make an enemy out of Pompey by awarding triumphs to his greatest rivals?’

  ‘I am afraid, brother,’ said Cicero wearily, ‘that the aristocracy did not acquire their wealth without knowing how to drive a hard bargain. I held out as long as I could.’

  ‘But why did you agree?’

  ‘Because I needed to win.’

  ‘But to win what, exactly?’

  Cicero was silent.

  ‘Good,’ said Terentia, patting her husband’s knee. ‘I think all those policies are good.’

  ‘Well, you would!’ protested Quintus. ‘But within weeks of taking office, Marcus will have no supporters left. The people will accuse him of betrayal. The Pompeians will do the same. And the aristocrats will drop him just as soon as he has served his purpose. Who will be left to defend him?’

  ‘I shall defend you,’ said Tullia, but for once no one laughed at her precocious loyalty, and even Cicero could only manage a faint smile. But then he rallied.

  ‘Really, Quintus,’ he said, ‘you are spoiling the whole evening. Between two extremes there is always a third way. Crassus and Caesar have to be stopped: I can make that case. And when it comes to Lucullus, everyone accepts that he deserves a triumph a hundred times over for what he achieved in the war against Mithradates.’

  ‘And Metellus?’ cut in Quintus.

  ‘I am sure I shall be able to find something to praise even in Metellus, if you give me sufficient time.’

  ‘And Pompey?’

  ‘Pompey, as we all know, is simply a humble servant of the republic,’ replied Cicero, with an airy wave of his hand. ‘More importantly,’ he added, deadpan, ‘he is not here.’

  There was a pause, and then, reluctantly, Quintus started to laugh. ‘He is not here,’ he repeated. ‘Well, that is true.’ After a while, we all laughed; one had to laugh, really.

  ‘That is better!’ Cicero smiled at us. ‘The art of life is to deal with problems as they arise, rather than destroy one’s spirit by worrying about them too far in advance. Especially tonight.’ And then a tear came into his eye. ‘Do you know who we should drink to? I believe we should raise a toast to the memory of our dear cousin, Lucius, who was here on this roof when we first talked of the consulship, and who would so much have wanted to see this day.’ He raised his cup, and we all raised ours with him, although I could not help remembering the last remark Lucius ever made to him: Words, words, words. Is there no end to the tricks you can make them perform?

  Later, after everyone had gone, either to their home or to their bed, Cicero lay on his back on one of the couches, with his hands clasped behind his head, staring up at the stars. I sat quietly on the opposite couch with my notebook ready in case he needed anything. I tried to stay alert. But the night was warm and I was swooning with tiredness, and when my head nodded forward for the fourth or fifth time, he looked across at me and told me to go and get some rest: ‘You are the private secretary of a consul-elect now. You will need to keep your wits as sharp as your pen.’ As I stood to take my leave, he settled back into his contemplation of the heavens. ‘How will posterity judge us, eh, Tiro?’ he said. ‘That is the only question for a statesman. But before it can judge us, it must first remember who we are.’ I waited for a while in case he wanted to add something else, but he seemed to have forgotten my existence, so I went away and left him to it.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ALTHOUGH IMPERIUM IS a novel, the majority of the events it describes did actually happen; the remainder at least could have happened; and nothing, I hope (a hostage to fortune, this), demonstrably did not happen. That Tiro wrote a life of Cicero is attested both by Plutarch and Asconius; it vanished in the general collapse of the Roman Empire.

  My principal debt is to the twenty-nine volumes of Cicero’s speeches and letters collected in the
Loeb Classical Library and published by Harvard University Press. Another invaluable aid has been The Magistrates of the Roman Republic, Volume II, 99 B.C.–31 B.C. by T. Robert S. Broughton, published by the American Philological Association. I should also like to salute Sir William Smith (1813–93), who edited the Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology, the Dictionary of Greek and Roman Antiquities and the Dictionary of Greek and Roman Geography – three immense and unsurpassed monuments to Victorian classical scholarship. There are, of course, many other works of more recent authorship which I hope to acknowledge in due course.

  R.H.

  16 May 2006

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  Rome, 63 BC. In a city on the brink of acquiring a vast empire, seven men are struggling for power. Cicero is consul, Caesar his ruthless young rival, Pompey the republic’s greatest general, Crassus its richest man, Cato a political fanatic, Catilina a psychopath, Clodius an ambitious playboy.

  The stories of these real historical figures – their alliances and betrayals, their cruelties and seductions, their brilliance and their crimes – are all interleaved to form this epic novel. Its narrator is Tiro, a slave who serves as confidential secretary to the wily, humane, complex Cicero. He knows all his master’s secrets – a dangerous position to be in.

  From the discovery of a child’s mutilated body, through judicial execution and a scandalous trial, to the brutal unleashing of the Roman mob, Lustrum is a study in the timeless enticements and horrors of power.