Cicero

by Anthony Everitt

  52 Murder of Publius Clodius Pulcher. Pompey sole Consul

  52/51 Tullia and Crassipes are divorced

  52–43 Cicero writes On Law (De legibus)

  51–50 Cicero governor of Cilicia

  50 Tullia marries Publius Cornelius Dolabella

  49–45 Civil war

  49–48 Cicero at Pompey’s headquarters in Greece

  48 Defeat of Pompey at the battle of Pharsalus. Murder of Pompey. Cicero returns to Italy. Death of Marcus Caelius Rufus

  48–44 Dictatorship of Julius Caesar

  47 Cicero pardoned by Caesar

  46 Suicide of Marcus Porcius Cato. Cicero divorces Terentia. He marries Publilia

  45 Death of Tullia. Cicero divorces Publilia. Divorce of Quintus and Pomponia. Cicero writes Hortensius; Academic Treatises (Academica); On Supreme Good and Evil (De finibus bonorum et malorum); Conversations at Tusculum (Tusculanae disputationes); The Nature of the Gods (De natura deorum)

  44 Assassination of Julius Caesar. Cicero writes Foretelling the Future (De divinatione); Destiny (De fato); Duties (De officiis)

  44–43 Siege of Mutina

  44/43 Suicide of Dolabella

  43 Battles at Mutina. Alliance among Mark Antony, Octavian (Caius Julius Caesar Octavianus, later the Emperor Augustus) and Marcus Aemilius Lepidus. Quintus and his son put to death. Cicero put to death

  42 Suicides of Caius Cassius Longinus and Marcus Junius Brutus at Philippi

  32 Death of Atticus

  31 Octavian’s victory over Antony at Actium

  30 Suicides of Mark Antony and Cleopatra

  27 Title of Augustus conferred on Octavian

  AD

  14 Death of Augustus

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Preface

  Chronology

  Maps

  1. Fault Lines

  2. “Always Be the Best, My Boy, the Bravest”

  3. The Forum and the Fray

  4. Politics and Foreign Postings

  5. Against Catilina

  6. Pretty-Boy’s Revenge

  7. Exile

  8. The Ideal Constitution

  9. The Drift to Civil War

  10. “A Strange Madness”

  11. Pacifying Caesar

  12. Philosophical Investigations

  13. “Why, This IS Violence!”

  14. The Heir

  15. Cicero’s Civil War

  16. Death at the Seaside

  17. Postmortems

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Sources

  A Reader’s Guide

  Questions for Discussion

  About the Author

  The spring weather was unsettled in Rome. The fifteenth of March was a public holiday, marking the end of winter. From the early morning, crowds of people had been streaming out of the city. It was almost as if Rome were being evacuated. Families abandoned the busy streets and huddled houses and crossed the River Tiber. In the countryside, in huts made of branches or makeshift tents, they would set up picnics and consume large amounts of alcohol. It was said that the drinkers would live for as many years as they downed cups (in that case, as one wit had it, everyone ought to live for as long as Nestor, the classical equivalent of Methuselah).

  The Senate, however, had more serious business at hand—its last meeting under the Dictator before he departed from Rome on a military expedition to Parthia. It was due to be held not as usual in the Senate House in the Forum but in one of Rome’s most spectacular buildings, the 340-meter-long Theater of Pompeius just outside the city on the Field of Mars. During the first half of the morning, the Senators gathered in a ceremonial hall in the center of the complex.

  Among the leading figures arriving at the theater was Marcus Tullius Cicero, now in his early sixties and by Roman standards an old man but still handsome, with full lips, a decisive nose and beetling brows. Rome’s most famous orator and one of the pillars of the Republican tradition, he was in theory in political retirement. Having sided against Julius Caesar in the recent civil war, he had reluctantly come to terms with the new regime. He still kept abreast of events. A witty man, he could seldom resist making topical jokes, often at the most inopportune moments. At the moment he was worrying about what new flattering honor the Senate might be preparing to award Caesar.

  When Cicero got out of his litter, surrounded by hangers-on waiting for his latest bon mot, he noticed leading members of the government mingling with the crowd. There was Marcus Junius Brutus, a member of one of Rome’s oldest families and a favorite of Caesar’s. He was joined by Caius Cassius Longinus, who had just arrived after being delayed by his son’s coming-of-age ceremony. They were soon deep in a private conversation. An acquaintance interrupted them, whom Cicero heard to say mysteriously that he hoped they would accomplish what they had in mind, but that they should hurry. Brutus and Cassius reacted nervously and seemed ill at ease.

  A rumor suddenly went round the gathering dignitaries that Caesar would not be attending the sitting after all. He and his wife had passed a restless night and both had had bad dreams. His doctors were advising him to stay at home, fearing a recurrence of the dizzy fits from which he suffered. Furthermore, the omens from the morning’s animal sacrifice were discouraging.

  Nevertheless, the great man at last arrived at about eleven o’clock, wearing the gold-bordered purple toga and high red boots that generals wore at their victory ceremonies. Fifty-six years old, he was tall, fair and well-built, with a broad face and keen, dark brown eyes. Years of ceaseless campaigning had left their mark on his constitution and he looked older than his years. Known for his personal vanity, he kept his thinning hair neatly trimmed and his face shaved. (According to gossip, he was also in the habit of depilating his pubic hair.)

  The Senators, who had been standing around talking, walked into the hall ahead of Caesar, but one of them came up to him and engaged him briefly in animated conversation. Meanwhile, Mark Antony, the Dictator’s right-hand man, was detained in an anteroom by someone with urgent business.

  Caesar was moving away from his litter when a teacher of public speaking whom he knew, a certain Artemidorus, confronted him. He handed over a note which he said should be read immediately. The Dictator was struck by the urgency in the man’s voice and kept the letter in his hand, though the pressure of the occasion put the document out of his mind and he was never to read it.

  Most Senators settled down on their benches, but a number stood around Caesar’s gilded ceremonial chair. AS an elder statesman, Cicero had a place of honor on a front bench. Meanwhile, outside the theater, further sacrifices were being conducted. Once more the slaughtered victims revealed unfavorable signs and more animals had to be brought forward, one after another, to see if better omens could be found. Caesar, losing patience, turned away and faced west, supposedly an unlucky direction.

  A religious official who had previously warned him that the Ides of March would bring danger caught Caesar’s eye. Caesar remarked jokingly: “Where are your predictions now? The day you were afraid of has come and I’m still alive.” “Yes, come, but not yet gone,” was the dry reply.

  The Dictator was again on the point of calling off the sitting when attendants announced that the Senate was ready. One of his staff intervened. “Come on, my dear fellow, there’s no time for this nonsense. Don’t put off the important business which you and this great assembly need to deal with. Make your own power an auspicious omen.” He led Caesar by the hand into the crowded chamber. On the Dictator’s appearance everyone stood up. The men gathered round his chair closed in on him as he sat down.

  Cicero had a perfect view of what happened next.

  A Senator called Tillius Cimber grabbed Caesar’s purple toga like a suppliant, preventing him from standing up or using his hands. Caesar was furious. “Why, this is violence!” he shouted.

  “What are you waiting for, friends?” cried Tillius,
pulling the toga away from Caesar’s neck.

  Publius Servilius Casca, who was standing behind the chair, aimed a blow at Caesar’s throat, but Caesar, well-known for his lightning reactions, wrenched his toga from Tillius’s grasp and the blow miscarried, only wounding him in the chest. Then, springing from his seat, he whirled round to grab Casca’s hand and rammed his writing stylus into his arm. The man yelled in Greek to his brother, standing nearby, who drove a dagger into Caesar’s side, which was exposed in the act of turning.

  The Senators in the body of the hall were in a state of shock. Only two of them tried to intervene, but they were driven off. No one else moved to help the stricken man.

  Given no forewarning of what was to happen, Cicero saw to his astonishment that one of his closest friends, Marcus Brutus, was leading the bloodstained throng as it hacked and thrust at its victim. Cassius, who gave Caesar a glancing blow across the face, was in the melee too. Clearly, there had been a conspiracy and, equally clearly and hurtfully, Cicero had not been invited to join it.

  Caesar kept twisting from side to side, bellowing like a wild animal. He was cut in the face and deep under one flank. The assassins accidentally stabbed one another rather than their target and it almost looked as if they were fighting among themselves. Then Brutus wounded Caesar in the groin. The dying man gasped: “You too, my son?” Either in response to this culminating betrayal or because he saw he had no hope of survival, he wound himself in his toga, unfastening the lower part to cover his legs, and fell neatly at the base of Pompey’s statue. No one would be allowed to see him defenseless. The conspirators went on savaging the body.

  The audience of Senators had no idea whether or not they too were under threat and they were not waiting to find out. There was a scuffle at the door as everyone pushed to leave.

  Then Brutus walked to the center of the hall. He brandished his dagger, shouted for Cicero by name and congratulated him on the recovery of freedom. The retired statesman, who had apparently made his peace with the tyrant, was suddenly pushed to center stage. Hitherto scarcely able to believe his eyes, he could now scarcely believe his ears. It was almost as if the assassination had been staged especially for him—as a particularly savage benefit performance.

  What had happened was a mystery to him. Even in the terror of the moment he actually had no regrets for Caesar. Quite the opposite.… But he could not begin to understand why a superannuated statesman, a self-confessed collaborator, was now being hailed as a symbol of Republican values and traditional liberties by the very man, Brutus, who had not trusted him enough in the first place to let him join the conspiracy to rid Rome of its tyrant.

  Cicero did not linger in the empty hall but made his way back to his house on Palatine Hill, while a thunderstorm burst overhead. One thing at least was clear to him. His shouted name meant that he was forgiven, and that after all his compromises and disappointed hopes, the steps for which he had been bitterly censured and even accused of cowardice, he was no longer peripheral to the future of Rome.

  Later, when he had time to reflect, Cicero thought back to the heyday of his political career nearly twenty years previously. During his Consulship he had put down an attempted coup by a dissolute nobleman, Lucius Sergius Catilina, a friend of Caesar’s but a much less talented politician, and had enforced the execution of his leading followers. Although he had been a member of the Senatorial oligarchy, Catilina had wanted to pull it down. Where he had tried and failed, Caesar had succeeded. But now he too had been destroyed and the Republic had been saved again. Brutus’s cry linked the past with the present and was an implicit invitation to Cicero to return to active politics.

  Giving the lie to his critics, the old orator was happy to respond. In the days and months that followed, he stepped back eagerly into the dangerous limelight.

  1

  FAULT LINES

  The Empire in Crisis: First Century BC

  To understand Cicero’s life, which spanned the first two thirds of the first century BC, it is necessary to picture the world in which he lived, and especially the nature of Roman politics.

  Rome in Cicero’s day was a complex and sophisticated city, with up to a million inhabitants, and much of its pattern of life is recognizably familiar, even at a distance of two millennia. There were shopping malls and bars and a lively cultural scene with theater and sport. Poetry and literature thrived and new books were much talked about. Leading actors were household names. The affluent led a busy social round of dinner parties and gossip, and they owned country homes to which they could retreat from the pressures of urban living. Politics was conducted with a familiar blend of private affability and public invective. Speech was free. Everyone complained about the traffic.

  The little city-state, hardly more than a village when it was founded (according to tradition) in 753 BC, gradually annexed the numerous tribes and statelets in the Italian peninsula and Sicily. The Romans were tough, aggressive and, to reverse von Clausewitz, inclined to see politics as a continuation of war by other means. They came to dominate the western Mediterranean. First, they gained a small foothold in the Maghreb, the province of Africa which covered roughly the territory of modern Tunisia. From here the great city of Carthage ruled its empire, until it was twice defeated by Rome and later razed to the ground in the second century BC. Spain was another prize of these wars and was divided into two provinces, Near Spain and Far Spain. In what is now Provence, Rome established Transalpine Gaul (Gallia Transalpina), but the rest of France was an unconquered and mysterious mélange of jostling tribes. Northern Italy was not merged into the home nation but was administered as a separate province, Italian Gaul (Gallia Cisalpina).

  Then Rome invaded Greece and the kingdoms of Asia Minor, enfeebled inheritors of the conquests of Alexander the Great. In the first century BC, along the eastern seaboard of the Mediterranean, now named with literal-minded accuracy “our sea” (Mare Nostrum), Rome directly governed a chain of territories: Macedonia (which included Greece), Asia (in western Turkey), Cilicia (in southern Turkey) and Syria (broadly, today’s Syria and Lebanon). Beyond them, client monarchies stood as buffers between Rome’s possessions and the unpredictable Parthian Empire, which lay beyond the River Euphrates. Pharaohs, although now of Greek stock, still ruled Egypt, but their independence was precarious.

  This empire, the largest the western world had so far seen, was created more through inadvertence than design and presented Rome with a heavy and complicated administrative burden. This was partly because communications were slow and unreliable. Although a network of well-engineered roads was constructed, travel was limited to the speed of a horse. The rich would often travel by litter or coach, and so proceeded at walking pace or not much faster. Sailing ships before the age of the compass tended to hug the coast and seldom ventured beyond sight of land.

  There being no public postal service, letters (which were scratched on waxed tablets or written on pieces of papyrus and sealed) were sent at considerable cost by messengers. The state employed couriers, as did commercial enterprises, and the trick for a private correspondent was to persuade them, or friendly travelers going in the right direction, to take his or her post with them and deliver it.

  The greatest underlying problem facing the Republic, however, lay at home in its system of governance. Rome was a state without most of the institutions needed to run a state. There was no permanent civil service except for a handful of officials at the Treasury; when politicians took office or went to govern a province they had to bring in their own people to help them conduct business. The concept of a police force did not exist, which meant that the public spaces of the capital city were often hijacked by gangs of hooligans in the service of one interest or another. Soldiers in arms were absolutely forbidden to enter Rome, so all the authorities could do to enforce law and order was to hire their own ruffians.

  The Republic was governed by the rule of law but did not operate a public prosecution service, and elected politicians acted as judg
es. Both in civil and criminal cases it was left to private individuals to bring suits. Usually litigants delegated this task to professional advocates, who acted as private detectives, assembling evidence and witnesses, as well as speaking at trials. Officially these advocates were unpaid, but in practice they could expect to receive favors, gifts and legacies in return for their services.

  There was no penal system, and prisons were used for emergencies rather than for housing convicts. (Distinguished foreign captives and state hostages were exceptions and could be kept under lock and key or house arrest for years.) Penalties were usually exile or a fine and capital punishment was rare: no Roman citizen could be put to death without trial, although some argued that this was permissible during an official state of emergency.

  The Republic became enormously rich on the spoils of empire, so much so that from 167 BC Roman citizens in Italy no longer paid any personal taxes. However, banking was in its infancy, and there were no major commercial financial institutions. Moneylenders (silversmiths and goldsmiths) laid cash out at interest and it was even possible to hold private accounts with them; but most people felt it safer to borrow from and lend to their family and friends. Without a bureaucracy the government was not in a position to collect taxes, selling the right to do so to the highest bidder. Tax farmers and provincial governors often colluded to make exorbitant profits.

  All these things, in their various ways, were obstacles to effective administration. However, the constitution, which controlled the conduct of politics, was the Republic’s greatest weakness.

  Rome was an evolutionary society, not a revolutionary one. Constitutional crises tended to lead not to the abolition of previous arrangements but to the accretion of new layers of governance. For two and a half centuries Rome was a monarchy that was very much under the thumb of neighboring Etruria (today’s Tuscany). In 510 BC King Tarquin was expelled in circumstances of great bitterness; according to legend, his son, Sextus, had raped a leading Roman’s daughter, Lucretia. Whatever really happened, the citizenry was determined that never again would any single man be allowed to obtain supreme power. This was the main principle that underpinned constitutional arrangements which, by Cicero’s time, were of a baffling complexity.