He bared his teeth. “I tell you straight, Conscript Fathers, that I don’t like you! If I were ever in a position to proscribe the lot of you, I would! I’d throw so many of you off the Tarpeian Rock that you’d end in falling on a senatorial mattress! I have had enough. Gaius Caesar is defying you and defying Rome. That has to stop. Deal with him! And don’t expect mercy from me if I see any one of you tending to favor Caesar! The man’s an outcast, an outlaw, though you don’t have the guts to declare him one legally! I warn you, from this day on I will regard any man who favors Caesar as an outcast, as an outlaw!”
He waved his hand. “Go home! Think about it! And then, by Jupiter, do something! Rid me of this Caesar!”
They turned and left without a word.
Pompey jumped down, beaming. “Oh, that feels better!” he said to the little group of boni who remained.
“You certainly rammed a red-hot poker up their arses,” said Cato, voice for once devoid of expression.
“Pah! They needed it, Cato. Our way one day, Caesar’s way the next. I’m fed up. I want an end to the business.”
“So we gathered,” said Marcellus Major dryly. “It wasn’t politic, Pompeius. You can’t order the Senate of Rome around like raw recruits on a drill ground.”
“Someone’s got to!” snapped Pompey.
“I’ve never seen you like this,” said Marcus Favonius.
“You’d better hope you never see me like this again,” said Pompey grimly. “Where are the consuls? Neither of them came.”
“They couldn’t come, Pompeius,” said Marcus Marcellus. “They are the consuls; their imperium outranks yours. To have come would have been tantamount to acknowledging you their master.”
“Servius Sulpicius wasn’t here either.”
“I don’t think,” said Gaius Marcellus Major, walking toward the door, “that Servius Sulpicius answers summonses.”
A moment later only Metellus Scipio was left. He gazed at his son-in-law reproachfully.
“What’s wrong with you?” demanded Pompey aggressively.
“Nothing, nothing! Except perhaps that I think this wasn’t wise, Magnus.” He sighed dolefully. “Not wise at all.”
An opinion echoed the next day, which happened to be Cicero’s fifty-seventh birthday, and the day upon which he arrived outside Rome to take up residence in a villa on the Pincian Hill; granted a triumph, he could not cross the pomerium. Atticus came out of the city to welcome him, and was quick to apprise him of the extraordinary scene of the evening before.
“Who told you?” asked Cicero, horrified at the details.
“Your friend the senator Rabirius Postumus, not the banker Rabirius Postumus,” said Atticus.
“Old Rabirius Postumus? Surely you mean the son.”
“I mean old Rabirius Postumus. He’s got a new lease on life now that Perperna is failing, wants the cachet of being the oldest.”
“What did Magnus do?” asked Cicero anxiously.
“Intimidated most of the Senate still in Rome. Not many of them had seen Pompeius like that—so angry, so scathing. No elegant language, just a traditional diatribe—but delivered with real venom. He said he wanted an end to the senatorial dithering about Caesar. What he really wants he didn’t say, but everyone was able to guess.” Atticus frowned. “He threatened to proscribe, which may give you an idea of how upset he was. He followed that by threatening to throw every senator from the Tarpeian Rock—until the last fell on a mattress of the first, was how he put it. They’re terrified!”
“But the Senate has tried—and tried hard!” protested Cicero, reliving those hours at the trial of Milo. “What does Magnus think it can do? The tribunician veto is inalienable!”
“He wants the Senate to enact a Senatus Consultum Ultimum and institute martial law with himself in command. Nothing less will satisfy him,” Atticus declared strongly. “Pompeius is wearing down under the strain. He wishes it were over, and for most of his life his wishes have come true. He is an atrociously spoiled man, used to having things all his own way. For which the Senate is at least partially responsible, Cicero! Its members have given in to him for decades. They’ve dowered him with one special command after another and let him get away with things they won’t condone in, for instance, Caesar. A man with the birthright is now demanding that the Senate treat him as it has treated Pompeius. Who do you think is really at the back of opposition to that?”
“Cato. Bibulus when he’s here. The Marcelli. Ahenobarbus. Metellus Scipio. A few other diehards,” said Cicero.
“Yes, but they’re all political creatures, which Pompeius is not,” said Atticus patiently. “Without Pompeius, they couldn’t have marshaled the resistance they have. Pompeius wants no rivals, and Caesar is a formidable rival.”
“Oh, if only Julia hadn’t died!” said Cicero miserably.
“That’s a non sequitur, Marcus. In the days when Julia was alive, Caesar was no threat. Or so Pompeius saw it. He’s not a subtle creature, nor gifted with foresight. If Julia were alive today, Pompeius would be behaving no differently.”
“Then I must see Magnus today,” said Cicero with decision.
“With what intention?”
“To try to persuade him to come to an agreement with Caesar. Or, if he refuses, to quit Rome, retire to Spain and his army, and wait the matter out. My feeling is that, despite Cato and the rabid boni, the Senate will come to some sort of compromise with Caesar if they believe they haven’t got Magnus to fall back on. They see Magnus as their soldier, the one capable of beating Caesar.”
“And I note,” said Atticus, “that you don’t think he can.”
“My brother doesn’t think he can, and Quintus would know.”
“Where is Quintus?”
“He’s here, but of course he’s not exiled from the city, so he’s gone home to see if your sister has improved in temper.”
Atticus laughed until the tears came. “Pomponia? Improve in temper? Pompeius will find harmony with Caesar before that can ever happen!”
“Why is it that neither of us Cicerones can manage to exist in domestic peace? Why are our wives such incorrigible shrews?”
Said Atticus, pragmatist supreme, “Because, my dear Marcus, both you and Quintus had to marry for money, and neither of you has the birth to find moneyed wives other men fancied.”
Thus squelched, Cicero walked from the Pincian Hill across the sward of the Campus Martius (where his little contingent of Cilician soldiers was camped, awaiting his modest triumphal parade) to that dinghy behind the yacht.
But when Cicero put his proposal to Pompey, to quit Rome and retire to Spain, he was rejected with loathing.
“I’d be seen to be backing down!” Pompey said, outraged.
“Magnus, that’s sheer nonsense! Pretend to agree to Caesar’s demands—after all, you’re not in the consul’s chair, you’re just another proconsul—and then settle down in Spain to wait. It’s a foolish farmer who has two prize rams and keeps them in the same meadow. Once you’re out of the Roman meadow, there’s no contest. You’ll be safe and well in Spain, an onlooker. With your army! Caesar will think twice about that. While you’re in Italia, his troops are closer to him than yours are to you— and his troops lie between yours and Italia. Go to Spain, Magnus, please!”
“I’ve never heard such rubbish,” growled Pompey. “No! No!”
*
While the debate in the House was raging on the sixth day of January, Cicero sent a polite note to Lucius Cornelius Balbus, asking that he come out to the Pincian Hill.
“Surely you want a peaceful solution,” said Cicero when Balbus arrived. “Jupiter, you’ve lost weight!”
“Believe me, Marcus Cicero, I do, and yes, I have,” said the little Gadetanian banker.
“I saw Magnus three days ago.”
“He won’t see me, alas,” sighed Balbus. “Not since Aulus Hirtius left Rome without seeing him. I got the blame.”
“Magnus won’t co-operate,” said Cicero abrupt
ly.
“Oh, if only there were some sort of common ground!”
“Well,” said Cicero, “I’ve been thinking. Day and night, I’ve been thinking. And I may have found a possibility.”
“Tell me, please!”
“It will require some work on your part, Balbus, to convince Caesar. Oppius and the rest too, I imagine.”
“Look at me, Marcus Cicero! Work has pared me away to nothing.”
“It will necessitate an urgent letter to Caesar, best written by you, Oppius, and Rabirius Postumus.”
“That part is easy. What should it say?”
“As soon as you leave, I’m going back to Magnus. And I will tell him that Caesar has consented to give up everything except one legion and Illyricum. Can you persuade Caesar to agree to it?”
“Yes, I’m sure we can if all of us add our weight. Caesar truly does prefer a peaceful settlement, you have my word on it. But you must see that he cannot give up everything. If he does, he will perish. They’ll try him and exile him. However, Illyricum and one legion are enough. He goes from day to day, Marcus Cicero. If he keeps his imperium, he’ll deal with the consular elections when the time comes. A man of more infinite resources I do not know.”
“Nor I,” said Cicero, rather despondently.
Back to Pompey’s villa, back to another confrontation; though Cicero was not to know that Pompey had passed a series of bad nights. Once the cathartic relief of that outburst to the senators had dissipated, the First Man in Rome began to feel the recoil and remember that no one among the boni, including his father-in-law, had approved of what he said to the senators. Or the tone in which he said it. Autocratic arrogance. Unwise. Almost four days later Pompey was regretting his loss of control; temper had translated into elation, and then, inevitably, into depression. Yes, they needed him. But yes, he needed them. And he had alienated them. He knew it because no one had come to see him since, nor had any of the meetings of the Senate been held outside the pomerium. It was all going on without him, the bitter and acrimonious debates, the vetoing, the defiance of that oaf Antonius and a Cassius. A Cassius! Of a clan who ought to know better. He had whipped the horse, but not understood that he was whipping a mule. Oh, how to get out of this bind? What might the Senate do? Not put him in control, even if it did institute martial law. Why on earth had he spoken of conscriptions and the Tarpeian Rock? Too far, Magnus, too far! No matter how much it might deserve that fate, never castigate the Senate like raw recruits.
Thus Cicero found the First Man in a more malleable and doubting frame of mind, realized it, and struck hard.
“I have it on impeccable authority, Magnus, that Caesar will agree to keep Illyricum and one legion only, that he will give up everything else,” said Cicero. “If you consent to this accommodation and use your influence to obtain it, you’ll be a hero. You will have single-handedly averted civil war. All of Rome save Cato and a very few other men will vote you a thanksgiving, statues, every kind of honor. We both understand that the conviction and exile of Caesar are Cato’s avowed goals, but they’re not really your goals, are they? What you object to is being treated in like manner to Caesar—what he loses, you must lose. But this latest proposal doesn’t mention you or yours.”
Pompey was visibly brightening. “It’s true that I don’t hate Caesar the way Cato does, nor am I as rigid a man as Cato. I don’t say, mind you, that I won’t be voting against letting Caesar stand for the consulship in absentia—but that’s a separate issue, and some months off. You’re right, the most important thing at the moment is to avert the threat of civil war. And if Illyricum plus one legion will satisfy Caesar… if he doesn’t require the same of me… well, why not? Yes, Cicero, why not? I’ll agree to it. Caesar can keep Illyricum and one legion if he gives up everything else. With one legion he’s powerless. Yes! I agree!”
Cicero sagged with the relief of it. “Magnus, I am not a drinking man, but I need a drop of your excellent wine.”
At which moment Cato and the junior consul Lentulus Crus walked into the atrium, from which Cicero and Pompey hadn’t moved, so anxious had Cicero been to make his point. Oh, the tragic misfortune of that! If they’d been ensconced in Pompey’s study, the visitors would have had to be announced and Cicero would have persuaded Pompey not to see them. As it was, Pompey was unprotected.
“Join us!” said Pompey to the newcomers jovially. “We’re about to drink to a peaceful accommodation with Caesar.”
“You’re what!” asked Cato, stiffening.
“Caesar has agreed to give up everything except Illyricum and one legion without asking me for anything more than my consent. No idiocies like my having to give up everything too. The threat of civil war is over; Caesar is rendered impotent,” said Pompey with huge satisfaction. “We can deal with his candidacy for the consulship when the time comes. I have averted civil war!”
Cato emitted a sound somewhere between a screech and a howl, put his hands to his scalp and literally wrenched two clumps of hair out of his head. “You cretin!” he shrieked. “You fat, self-satisfied, over-rated, over-aged boy wonder! What do you mean, you’ve averted civil war? You’ve given in to the greatest enemy the Republic has ever had!” He ground his teeth, he raked at his cheeks with his nails, he advanced on Pompey still clutching those two hanks of hair. Pompey backed away, stupefied.
“You’ve taken it upon yourself to accommodate Caesar, have you? Who says you have any right to do that? You’re the Senate’s servant, Pompeius, not the Senate’s master! And you’re supposed to be teaching that lesson to Caesar, not collaborating with him on bringing down the Republic!”
Pompey in a temper was almost as awesome, but Pompey had a fatal weakness; once someone threw him off balance (as Sertorius had in Spain), he couldn’t manage to regain his equilibrium nor snatch back control of the situation. Cato had wrested the offensive from him, tossed him into a state of confusion which prevented his growing angry in return, rendered him incapable of finding the right answers to explain himself. Mind whirling, he gazed at the most intimidating display of rage he had ever encountered, and he quailed. This wasn’t a temper, it was a furor.
Cicero tried. “Cato, Cato, don’t do this!” he shouted. “Use your ammunition in the proper way—force Caesar into court, not into civil war! Control yourself!”
A big and testy man, Lentulus Crus grasped Cicero by the left shoulder and spun him round, then began pushing him across the room. “Shut up! Keep out of it! Shut up! Keep out of it!” he barked, each bark punctuated by a punch to the chest which sent Cicero reeling backward.
“You are not Dictator!” Cato was screaming at Pompey. “You do not run Rome! You have no authority to enter into bargains with a traitor behind our backs! Illyricum and one legion, eh? And you think that a trifling concession, eh? It is not! It—is—not! It is a major concession! A major concession! And I say to you, Gnaeus Pompeius, that absolutely no concessions can be made to Caesar! He cannot be conceded the tip of a dead Roman’s finger! Caesar must be taught that the Senate is his master, that he is not the Senate’s master! And if you need to be taught the same lesson, Pompeius, then I am just the man to drum it into you! You want to ally yourself with Caesar, do you? Very well! Ally yourself with Caesar! Caesar the traitor! And suffer the same fate as Caesar the traitor! For I swear to you by all our Gods that I will bring you down lower than I bring Caesar down! I will have your imperium, your provinces and your army stripped from you in the same breath as Caesar’s are stripped from him! All I have to do is say so in the House! And the House will vote to do it, and there will be no tribunician veto because you do not command the loyalty of a Curio or an Antonius! The only legions you have at your disposal are two legions which owe their loyalty to Caesar! Your own legions are a thousand miles away in Spain! So how can you stop me, Pompeius? I’ll do it, you traitor! And I’ll glory in doing it! This is no social men’s club you elected to join! The boni are utterly committed to bringing Caesar down. And we will just as happily bri
ng anyone down who sides with him—even you! Then perhaps it’s you who will be proscribed, you who will be thrown from the Tarpeian Rock! Did you think we boni would condone those threats? Well, we won’t! Nor will we support any man who dares to flout the authority of the Senate of Rome!”
“Stop! Stop!” gasped Pompey, extending both hands to Cato with palms out. “Stop, Cato, I beg of you! You’re right! You—are—right! I admit it! Cicero talked me into it, I was—I was—I was weak! It was just a weak moment! No one’s come to see me for three days! What was I to think?”
But Cato enraged was not Pompey enraged. Pompey snapped out of a temper as quickly as he fell into it, whereas it took a long time to calm Cato down, to unstopper his ears and persuade them to hear the sounds of surrender. He ranted for what seemed endless hours before he shut his mouth and stood, trembling.
“Sit down, Cato,” said Pompey, fussing about him like an old woman about her lapdog. “Here, sit down, do!” He rushed to pour a goblet of wine, rushed back to hand it to Cato, wrapping both hands about its bowl and, with a shudder, removing the hair Cato still held. “There now, drink it down, please! You’re right—I was wrong—I admit it freely! Blame Cicero, he caught me in a weak moment.” He gazed pleadingly at Lentulus Crus. “Have some wine, do! Let’s all sit down and sort out our differences, for there are none cannot be sorted out, I promise you. Please, Lucius Crus, have some wine!”
“Ohhhhh!” cried Cicero from the far side of the room.
But Pompey paid him no attention; Cicero turned and left to plod back across the Campus Martius to the Pincian Hill, trembling almost as hard as Cato had.
That was the end of it, then. That was the watershed. There could be no going back now. So close, so close! Oh, why did those two boni irascibles have to arrive at just the wrong moment?
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