Robert Harris: Lustrum

'That is the kind of risk one has to take in business.'

'Goodbye, Crassus.'

'Think it over, Cicero. Don't be a stubborn fool. It's two million or nothing.'

'I said goodbye, Crassus.'

'All right, two and a half million?' Cicero did not respond. Crassus shook his head. 'That,' he said, rising to his feet, 'is exactly the sort of arrogant folly that has brought you to this pass. I shall warm my hands at your fire.'

On the next day, a meeting of Cicero's principal supporters was called to decide what he should do. It was to be held in the library, and I had to scour the house for chairs so that everyone should have a place to sit. I put out twenty. Atticus arrived first, then Cato, followed by Lucullus and, after a long interval, Hortensius. They all had to endure a hard passage through the mob that had occupied the neighbouring streets, especially Hortensius, who was roughed up quite badly, his face scratched, his toga splattered with shit. It was unnerving to see a man normally immaculate in his appearance so shaken and despoiled. We waited to see if anyone else would come, but nobody did. Tullia had already left Rome with her husband for the safety of the country, after an emotional scene with Cicero, so the only member of the family present was Terentia. I took notes.

If Cicero was dismayed that the vast crowds he had once commanded had dwindled to this small band, he did not show it. 'On this bitter day,' he said, 'I wish to thank all of you who have so bravely struggled to support my cause. Adversity is a part of life – not one I necessarily recommend, you understand' – my notes record laughter – 'but still: at least it shows us men's true natures, and just as I have shown my weakness, so I have seen your strength.' He stopped, and cleared his throat. I thought he was going to break down again. But this time he carried on. 'So the law will take effect at midnight? There is no doubt of that, I take it?' He glanced around. All four shook their head.

'No,' said Hortensius, 'none whatever.'

'Then what options are open to me?'

'It seems to me you have three,' said Hortensius. 'You can ignore the law and remain in Rome, and hope your friends will continue to support you, although from tomorrow that will be even more dangerous than it is now. You can leave the city tonight, while it is still legal for people to help you, and hope to get out of Italy unmolested. Or you could go to Caesar and ask if his offer of a legateship still stands, and claim immunity.'

Cato said, 'He does have a fourth option, of course.'

'Yes?'

'He could kill himself.'

There was a profound silence, and then Cicero said, 'What would be the benefit of that?'

'From the stoic point of view, suicide has always been con sidered a logical act of defiance for a wise man. It is also your natural right to put an end to your anguish. And frankly, it would set an example of resistance to tyranny that would stand for all time.'

'Do you have a particular method in mind?'

'I do. In my opinion you should brick yourself into this house and starve yourself to death.'

'I disagree,' said Lucullus. 'If it's martyrdom you seek, Cicero, why bother to do the deed yourself? Why not stay in the city and dare your enemies to do their worst? You have a chance of surviving. And if you don't, at least the opprobrium of murder falls on them.'

'Being murdered requires no courage,' retorted Cato with contempt, 'whereas suicide is a manly, conscious act.'

'And what is your own advice, Hortensius?' asked Cicero.

'Leave the city,' he replied at once. 'Keep yourself alive.' He touched his fingertips briefly to his forehead and felt along the rusty line of dried blood. 'I went to see Piso today. Privately he has some sympathy for the way you have been treated. Allow us the time to work for the repeal of Clodius's law while you are in voluntary exile. I am certain you will come back in triumph one day.'

'Atticus?'

'You know my view,' said Atticus. 'You would have saved yourself a lot of trouble if you had accepted Caesar's offer in the first place.'

'And Terentia? What do you say, my dear?'

She had put on mourning, like her husband, and in her black weeds, with her deathly pale face, she had become our Electra. She spoke with great force. 'Our present existence is intolerable. Voluntary exile smacks to me of cowardice. And try explaining suicide to your six-year-old son. You have no choice. Go to Caesar.'

It was late afternoon – a red sun dipping behind the bare trees, a warm spring breeze carrying the incongruous chant of 'Death to the tyrant!' from the forum. The other senators with their attendants left by the front door, serving as decoys to draw the attention of the the mob, while Cicero and I crept out through the back. Cicero had a tattered old brown blanket draped over his head and looked exactly like a beggar. We hurried down the Caci Steps to the Etruscan Road, and then joined the crowds heading out of the city through the river gate. Nobody molested us, or even gave us a second glance.

I had sent a slave ahead with a message for Caesar that Cicero wished to see him, and one of his officers in a red-plumed helmet was waiting for us at the gate. He was very much taken aback by Cicero's appearance, but managed to recover sufficiently to give him a kind of half-salute, and then escorted us out to the Field of Mars. Here a huge tented city had been pitched to accommodate Caesar's newly mustered Gallic legions, and as we passed through it I noticed everywhere signs that the army was striking camp and preparing to depart: waste pits were being filled in, earth ramparts levelled, wagons loaded with supplies. The officer told Cicero that their orders were to begin marching north before dawn the next day. He led us to a tent much larger than the others and set apart on slightly higher ground, with a legionary eagle planted beside it. He asked us to wait, and then lifted the flap and went inside, leaving Cicero, bearded, and in his old tunic with his blanket draped around his shoulders, to gaze around the camp.

'This is how it always seems to be with Caesar,' I remarked, trying to lighten the silence. 'He likes to keep his visitors waiting.'

'We had better get used to it,' replied Cicero in a grim voice. 'Look at that,' he said, nodding beyond the camp towards the river. Rising from the plain in the dusty light was a great rickety edifice of scaffolding. 'That must be the Pharaoh's theatre.' He contemplated it for a long time, chewing the inside of his lip.

Eventually the flap parted again and we were shown into the tent. The interior was Spartan. A thin straw mattress lay on the ground, with a blanket thrown across it; near to it was a wooden chest on which stood a mirror, a set of hairbrushes, a jug of water and a basin, together with a miniature portrait of a woman in a gold frame (I am almost certain it was Servilia, but I was not close enough to be sure). At a folding table piled with documents sat Caesar. He was signing something. Two secretaries stood motionless behind him. He finished what he was doing, looked up, rose, and advanced towards Cicero with his hand outstretched. It was the first time I had seen him in military uniform. It fitted him as naturally as his skin, and I realised that in all the years I had observed him I had never actually seen him in the arena for which he was best suited. That was a sobering thought.

'My dear Cicero,' he said, examining his visitor's appearance, 'it truly grieves me to see you reduced to this condition.' With Pompey there was always hugging and back-slapping, but Caesar did not go in for that kind of thing. After the briefest of handshakes he gestured to Cicero to sit. 'How can I help?'

'I have come to accept the position of your legate,' replied Cicero, perching himself on the edge of the chair, 'if the offer still stands.'