Dictator

by Robert Harris

  Cicero’s face turned grey. “And Hirtius and Caesar? Any news of them?”

  Cornutus said, “None. Pansa was on his way to their camp but was attacked before he could join them.”

  Cicero groaned.

  Cornutus said, “Should I summon a meeting of the Senate?”

  “Dear gods, no!” To the messenger Cicero said, “Tell me the truth—does anyone else in Rome yet know about this?”

  The messenger bowed his head. “I went first to the consul’s home. His father-in-law was there.”

  “Calenus!”

  Cornutus said grimly, “He knows it all, unfortunately. He’s in the Portico of Pompey at this very moment, on the exact spot where Caesar was struck down. He’s telling anyone who’ll listen that we’re paying the price for an impious killing. He accuses you of planning to seize power as dictator. I believe he’s gathering quite a crowd.”

  I said to Cicero, “We ought to get you out of Rome.”

  Cicero shook his head emphatically. “No, no. They’re the traitors, not I. Damn them, I’ll not run away. Find Appuleius,” he ordered the urban praetor briskly, as if he were his head steward. “Tell him to call a public assembly and then to come and fetch me. I’ll speak to the people. I need to steady their nerves. They must be reminded that there’s always bad news in war. And you,” he said to the messenger, “had better not breathe a word of this to another soul, do you understand, or I’ll have you put in chains.”

  I never admired Cicero more than I did that day, when he stared ruin in the face. He went into his study to compose an oration, while I, from the terrace, watched the Forum begin to fill with citizens. Panic has its own pattern. I had learned to recognise it over the years. Men run from one speaker to another. Groups form and dissolve. Sometimes the public space clears entirely. It is like a cloud of dust drifting and whirling before the onset of a storm.

  Appuleius came toiling up the hill as requested and I took him in to see Cicero. He reported that the current rumour going round was that Cicero was to be presented with the fasces of a dictator. It was a trick, of course—a provocation that would be the pretext for his murder. The Antonians would then ape the tactics of Brutus and Cassius and seize the Capitol and try to hold it until Antony arrived in the city to relieve them.

  Cicero asked Appuleius, “Will you be able to guarantee my security if I come down to address the people?”

  “I can’t give an absolute guarantee, but we can try.”

  “Send as big an escort as you can. Allow me one hour to get myself ready.”

  The tribune went away, and to my astonishment Cicero then announced that he would have a bath and be shaved, and change into a fresh set of clothes. “Make sure you write all this down,” he said to me. “It will make a good end for your book.”

  He went off with his body slaves, and by the time he came back an hour later, Appuleius had assembled a strong force out in the street, consisting mostly of gladiators along with his fellow tribunes and their attendants. Cicero braced his shoulders, the door was opened, and he was just about to cross the threshold when the lictors of the urban praetor came hurrying up the road, clearing a path for Cornutus. He was holding a dispatch. His face was wet with tears. Too out of breath and emotional to speak, he thrust the dispatch into Cicero’s hands.

  From Hirtius to Cornutus. Before Mutina.

  I send you this in haste. Thanks be to the gods, we have this day retrieved an earlier disaster and won a great victory over the enemy. What was lost at noon has been recouped at sunset. I led out twenty cohorts of the Fourth Legion to relieve Pansa and fell upon Antony’s men when they were celebrating prematurely. We have captured two eagles and sixty standards. Antony and the remnants of his army have retreated to his camp, where they are trapped. Now it is his turn to taste what it is like to be besieged. He has lost the greater part of his veteran troops; he has only cavalry. His position is hopeless. Mutina is saved. Pansa is wounded but should recover. Long live the Senate and the people of Rome. Tell Cicero.

  What followed was the greatest day of Cicero’s life—more hard-won than his victory over Verres, more exhilarating than his election to the consulship, more joyful than his defeat of Catilina, more historic than his return from exile. All those triumphs dwindled to nothing in comparison to the salvation of the republic.

  That day I reaped the richest of rewards for my many days of labour and sleepless nights, wrote Cicero to Brutus. The whole population of Rome thronged to my house and escorted me up to the Capitol, then set me on the Speakers’ Platform amid tumultuous applause.

  The moment was all the sweeter for having been preceded by such bitter despair. “This is your victory!” he shouted from the rostra to the thousands in the Forum. “No,” they called back, “it is your victory!” The following day in the Senate he proposed that Pansa, Hirtius and Octavian should be honoured by an unprecedented fifty days of public thanksgiving, and a monument erected to the fallen: “Brief is the life given us by nature; but the memory of a life nobly sacrificed is everlasting.” None of his enemies dared oppose him: either they stayed away from the session or voted tamely as he asked. Every time he stepped out of doors he was cheered. He was at his zenith. All he needed now was the final official confirmation that Antony was dead.

  A week later came a dispatch from Octavian:

  From G. Caesar to his friend Cicero.

  I am scribbling this by lamplight in my camp on the evening of the twenty-first. I wanted to be the first to tell you that we have won a second great victory over the enemy. For a week, my legions, in close alliance with those of the gallant Hirtius, probed the defences of Antony’s camp for weaknesses. Last night we found a suitable place and this morning we attacked. The fighting was bloody and obstinate, the slaughter great. I was in the midst of it. My standard-bearer was killed beside me. I shouldered the eagle and carried it. This rallied our men. Decimus, seeing that the decisive moment had arrived, at last led his forces out of Mutina and joined the battle. The greater part of Antony’s army was destroyed. The villain himself, with his cavalry, has fled, and judging by the direction of his flight he means to cross the Alps.

  So much is wonderful. But now I must tell you the hard part. Hirtius, despite his failing health, advanced with great spirit into the very heart of the enemy camp and had reached Antony’s own tent when he was struck down by a fatal sword thrust to his neck. I have retrieved his body and will return it to Rome, where I am sure you will see that he receives the honours due to a brave consul. I shall write again when I can. Perhaps you will tell his sister.

  When he had finished reading, Cicero passed me the letter, then clenched his fists together and raised his eyes to heaven. “I thank the gods I have been allowed to see this moment.”

  “Though it is a pity about Hirtius,” I added. I was thinking of all those dinners under the stars in Tusculum.

  “True—I am very sorry for his sake. Still: how much better to die swiftly and gloriously in battle rather than lingeringly and squalidly on a sickbed. This war has been waiting for a hero. I shall make it my business to put Hirtius on the vacant plinth.”

  He took Octavian’s letter with him to the Senate that morning, intending to read it aloud, to deliver “the eulogy to end all eulogies” and to propose a state funeral for Hirtius. It was a measure of his buoyant spirits that he could take the loss of a consul so lightly. On the steps of the Temple of Concordia he met the urban praetor, who was also just arriving. Senators were streaming in to take their places. The auspices were being taken. Cornutus was grinning. He said, “I surmise by your expression that you too have heard the news of Antony’s final defeat?”

  “I am in raptures. Now we must make sure the villain doesn’t escape.”

  “Oh, take it from an old soldier—we have more than enough men to cut him off. A pity, though, that it cost us the life of a consul.”

  “Indeed—a wretched business.” Side by side the two men began to climb the steps towards the entrance
. Cicero said, “I thought I would deliver a eulogy, if that is all right by you.”

  “Of course, although Calenus has already asked me if he might say something.”

  “Calenus! What business is it of his?”

  Cornutus stopped and turned to Cicero. He looked surprised. “Well, because Pansa was his son-in-law…”

  “What are you talking about? You’ve got it the wrong way round. Pansa isn’t dead; it’s Hirtius who has died.”

  “No, no. It’s Pansa, I assure you. I received a message from Decimus last night. Look.” And he gave the dispatch to Cicero. “He says that once the siege was lifted, he set off directly for Bononia to consult with Pansa on how they should best pursue Antony, only to discover that he had succumbed to the wounds he received in the first battle.”

  Cicero refused to believe it. Only when he read Decimus’s letter did he have to concede there was no doubt. “But Hirtius is dead as well—killed while storming Antony’s camp. I have a letter here from young Caesar confirming that he has taken custody of the body.”

  “Both consuls are dead?”

  “It’s unimaginable.” Cicero appeared so dazed by the news, I thought he might topple backwards down the steps. “In the entire existence of the republic, only eight consuls have died during their year in office. Eight—in nearly five hundred years! And now we lose two in the same week!”

  Some of the passing senators had stopped to look at them. Conscious that they were being overheard, Cicero drew Cornutus to one side and spoke to him in a quiet, urgent voice. “This is a dark moment, but we must live through it. Nothing can be allowed to impede our pursuit and destruction of Antony. That is the alpha and omega of our policy. There are plenty of our colleagues who will try to exploit this tragedy to create mischief.”

  “Yes, but who will command our forces in the absence of the consuls?”

  Cicero made a sound that was something between a groan and a sigh and put his hand to his brow. What a mess this made of all his careful planning, of all his delicate balancing of power! “Well, I suppose there’s no alternative. It will have to be Decimus. He’s the senior in age and experience, and he’s the governor of Nearer Gaul.”

  “What about Octavian?”

  “Leave Octavian to me. But we will need to vote him the most extraordinary thanks and honours if we’re to keep him in our camp.”

  “Is it wise to make him up to be so mighty? One day he’ll turn on us, I’m sure of it.”

  “Perhaps he will. But we can deal with him later. He can be raised, praised and erased.”

  It was the sort of cynical remark Cicero often made for effect: a play on words; a knowing joke, nothing more. Cornutus said, “Very good, I must remember that—raised, praised, erased.” Then the two discussed how best to break the news to the Senate, what motions should be proposed and how the votes should be taken, and after that they proceeded into the temple.

  “The nation has sustained a triumph and a tragedy in the same breath,” Cicero told the silent Senate. “A mortal danger has been lifted but only at a mortal price. The news has just been received that we have won a second and decisive victory at Mutina. Antony is in flight with his few remaining followers, to where we do not know—to the north, to the mountains, to the gates of hell itself for all we care!” (My notes record cheers at this point.) “But gentlemen, I have to tell you: Hirtius is dead. Pansa is dead.” (Gasps, cries, protests.) “The gods demanded a sacrifice in expiation for our weakness and our folly over recent months and years, and our two gallant consuls have paid it in full measure. In due course their earthly remains will be returned to the city. We will lay them to rest with solemn honours. We will build a great monument to their valour that men will gaze upon for a thousand years. But we will honour them best by finishing the task they so nearly completed and extirpating Antony once and for all. (Applause.)

  “I propose that in the light of the loss of our consuls at Mutina, and mindful of the need to prosecute the war to its end, Decimus Junius Albinus be appointed commander-in-chief of the Senate’s armies in the field and that Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus should be his deputy in all matters; and that in recognition of their brilliant generalship, heroism and success, the name of Decimus Junius Albinus should be added to the Roman calendar to mark his birthday for eternity, and that Gaius Julius Caesar Octavianus should be awarded the honour of an ovation as soon as it is convenient for him to come to Rome to receive it.”

  The ensuing debate was full of mischief. As Cicero wrote to Brutus, That day I realised that gratitude has considerably fewer votes in the Senate than spite. Isauricus, as jealous of Octavian as he had been of Antony, objected to the idea of awarding him an ovation, which would allow him to parade with his legions through Rome. In the end Cicero was only able to carry his proposal by agreeing to give Decimus the even greater honour of a triumph. A commission of ten men was set up to settle the remuneration, in cash and land, of all the soldiers: the idea was to draw them away from Octavian, reduce their bounty and put them on the payroll of the Senate. To add insult to this injury, neither Octavian nor Decimus was invited to join the commission. Calenus, dressed in mourning, also demanded that his son-in-law’s doctor, Glyco, be arrested and examined under torture if necessary to determine whether Pansa’s death was murder: “Remember we were assured to begin with that his injuries were not serious, but now we can see that certain persons stand to gain greatly by his removal”—an obvious reference to Octavian.

  All in all it was a bad day’s work, and Cicero had to sit down that night and explain to Octavian what had happened.

  I am sending you by the same courier the resolutions that have today been agreed by the Senate. I hope you will accept the logic of our placing you and your soldiers under the command of Decimus, just as you were previously subordinate to the consuls. The Commission of Ten is a bit of nonsense I shall try to have rescinded: give me time. You should have been there, my dear friend, to hear the encomia! The rafters rang with praise of your daring and loyalty, and I am glad to say that you will be the youngest commander in the history of the republic to be granted the distinction of an ovation. Press on with your pursuit of Antony, and keep that place in your heart for me that I keep in mine for you.

  After that there was silence.

  —

  For a long time Cicero heard nothing from the theatre of operations. That was not surprising. It was remote, inhospitable country. He comforted himself by imagining Antony with his lonely band of followers struggling along the inaccessible narrow mountain passes while Decimus raced to try to cut him off. It was not until the thirteenth day of May that news arrived from Decimus—and then, as is often the way with these things, not one but three dispatches arrived all at once. I took them straight to Cicero in his study; he opened the document case greedily and read them aloud in order. The first was dated the twenty-ninth of April and put Cicero on his guard at once: I shall try to ensure that Antony is unable to maintain himself in Italy. I shall be after him immediately.

  “Immediately?” said Cicero, checking again the date at the head of the letter. “What is he talking about? He’s already writing eight days after Antony fled Mutina…”

  The next dispatch was written a week later, when Decimus was finally on the march:

  The reasons, my dear Cicero, why I was unable to pursue Antony at once are these. I had no cavalry, no pack animals. I did not know of Hirtius’s death. I did not trust Caesar until I had met and talked to him. So the first day passed. Early on the next I had a message from Pansa summoning me to Bononia. As I was on my way, I received the report of his death. I hastened back to my own apology for an army. It is most sadly reduced and in very bad shape through lack of all the necessities. Antony got two days’ start of me and made far longer marches as the pursued than I as the pursuer, for he went helter-skelter, while I moved in regular order. Wherever he went he opened up the slave barracks and carried off the men, stopping nowhere until he reached Vada. He seems to hav
e made up a pretty sizeable body. He may go to Lepidus.

  If Caesar had listened to me and crossed the Apennines I should have put Antony in so tight a corner that he would have been finished by lack of supplies rather than cold steel. But there is no giving orders to Caesar, nor by Caesar to his army—both very bad things. What alarms me is how this situation can be straightened out. I cannot any longer feed my men.

  The third letter was written a day after the second and dispatched from the foothills of the Alps: Antony is on the march. He is going to Lepidus. Please look to future action in Rome. You will counter the world’s malice towards me if you can.

  “He has let him get away,” said Cicero, resting his head in his hand and reading the letters through again. “He has let him get away! And now he says that Octavian can’t or won’t obey him as commander-in-chief. Well, this is a pretty mess!”

  He wrote a letter at once for the courier to take back to Decimus:

  From what you write, the flames of war, so far from having been extinguished, seem to be blazing higher. We understood that Antony had fled in despair with a few unarmed and demoralised followers. If in fact his condition is such that a clash with him will be a dangerous matter, I do not regard him as having fled from Mutina at all but as having shifted the war to another theatre.

  The next day, the funeral cortège of Hirtius and Pansa reached Rome, escorted by an honour guard of cavalry sent by Octavian. It passed through the streets to the Forum at dusk, watched by hushed and sombre crowds. At the base of the rostra the Senate, all in black togas, waited by torchlight to receive it. Cornutus gave a eulogy that Cicero had written for him, and then the vast assembly walked behind the biers to the Field of Mars, where the pyres had been prepared. As a mark of patriotic respect the undertakers, actors and musicians refused to take any payment; Cicero joked that when an undertaker won’t take your money, you know you are a hero. But beneath his public show of bravado, in private he was profoundly troubled. As the torches were put to the base of the pyres, and the flames shot up, Cicero’s face in the firelight looked old and hollowed with worry.