The Dictator (49 page)

The nervous strain under which he lived during those early days of April, while waiting for word from Mutina, was indescribable. First there would be good news. After months without contact, Cassius at last wrote to say that he was taking complete control of Syria: that all sides—Caesareans, republicans and the last remaining Pompeians—were flocking to him and that he had under his command a united army of no fewer than eleven legions.
I want you to know that you and your friends at the Senate are not without powerful support, so you can defend the state in the best interests of hope and courage.
Brutus also was meeting with success and had raised a further five legions, some twenty-five thousand men, in Macedonia. Young Marcus was with him, recruiting and training cavalry:
Your son earns my approval by his energy, endurance, hard work and unselfish spirit, in fact by every kind of service.

But then would come more ominous dispatches. Decimus was in desperate straits after more than four months trapped in Mutina. He could only communicate with the outside world by carrier pigeon, and the few birds that got through brought news of starvation, disease and low morale. Lepidus meanwhile was moving his legions closer to the scene of the impending battle with Antony, and he urged Cicero and the Senate to consider a fresh offer of peace talks. Cicero was so incensed by this weak and arrogant man’s presumption that he dictated to me a letter that went off that same night:

Cicero to Lepidus.

I rejoice at your desire to make peace among citizens but only if you can separate that peace from slavery. Otherwise you should understand that all men of sense have taken a resolution to prefer death to servitude. You will act more wisely in my judgement if you meddle no further in this affair, which is not acceptable either to the Senate or the people, or to any honest man.

Cicero was under no illusions. The city and the Senate still harboured hundreds of Antony’s supporters. If Decimus surrendered, or if the armies of Hirtius, Pansa and Octavian were defeated, he knew he would be the first to be seized and murdered. As a safety precaution he ordered home two of the three legions stationed in Africa to defend Rome. But they would not arrive until the middle of the summer.

It was on the twentieth day of April that the crisis finally broke. Early that morning, Cornutus, the urban praetor, hurried up the hill. With him was a messenger who had been dispatched by Pansa six days earlier. Cornutus’s expression was grim. “Tell Cicero,” he said to the messenger, “what you’ve just told me.”

In a trembling voice the messenger said, “Vibius Pansa regrets to report a catastrophic defeat. He and his army were surprised by the forces of Mark Antony at the settlement of Forum Gallorum. The lack of experience of our men was immediately evident. The line broke and there was a general slaughter. The consul managed to escape but is himself wounded.”

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.”