Imperium

And so off they went, Baldhead and the Butcher Boy, noticeably neither talking nor even looking at each other, heading toward the gate. A stampede of senators, seeing what was happening, set off in pursuit, and we were swept along in the rush, borne out of the Villa Publica and into what felt like a solid wall of noise and heat. Twenty thousand people must have gathered on the Field of Mars that afternoon, all bellowing their approval. A narrow avenue had been cleared by the soldiers, straining arms chain-linked at the elbows, feet scrabbling in the dust to hold back the crowd. It was just wide enough for Pompey and Crassus to walk abreast, and they made slow progress toward the tribunal where the officials traditionally stand at election time. Pompey heaved himself up first, to a renewed surge of applause, which he basked in for a while, turning his wide and beaming face this way and that, like a cat in sunshine. Then he reached down and hauled Crassus up after him. At this demonstration of unity between the two notorious rivals, the crowd let out another roar, and it came again and even louder when Pompey seized hold of Crassus’s hand and raised it above his head.
“What a sickening spectacle,” said Cicero. He had to shout into my ear to make himself heard. “The consulship demanded and conceded at the point of the sword. We are witnessing the beginning of the end of the republic, Tiro, remember my words!” I could not help reflecting, however, that if he had been in that conference, and he had helped engineer this joint ticket, he would now be hailing it as a masterpiece of statecraft.
Pompey waved at the crowd for quiet, then began speaking in his parade-ground voice. “People of Rome, the leaders of the Senate have graciously conveyed to me the offer of a triumph, and I am pleased to accept it. They have also told me that I will be allowed to stand as a candidate for the consulship, and I am pleased to accept that as well. The only thing that pleases me more is that my old friend Marcus Licinus Crassus will be my colleague.” He concluded by promising that the following year he would hold a great festival of games, dedicated to Hercules, in honor of his victories in Spain.
Well, these were fine words, no doubt, but he said them all too quickly, forgetting to leave the necessary pause after every sentence, which meant those few who had managed to hear his words had no opportunity to repeat them to those behind who had not. I doubt if more than a few hundred out of that vast assembly knew what he was saying, but they cheered in any case, and they cheered even more when Crassus immediately, and cunningly, upstaged him.
“I hereby dedicate,” he said, in the booming voice of a trained orator, “at the same time as Pompey’s games-on the same day as Pompey’s games-one tenth of my fortune-one tenth of my entire fortune-to providing free food to the people of Rome-free food for every one of you, for three months-and a great banquet in the streets-a banquet for every citizen-a banquet in honor of Hercules!”
The crowd went into fresh ecstasies. “The villain,” said Cicero admiringly. “A tenth of his fortune is a bribe of twenty million! But cheap at the price. See how he turns a weak position into a strong one? I bet you were not expecting that,” he called out to Palicanus, who was struggling toward us from the tribunal. “He has made himself look Pompey’s equal. You should never have allowed him a platform.”
“Come and meet the imperator,” urged Palicanus. “He wants to thank you in person.” I could see Cicero was of two minds, but Palicanus tugged at his sleeve, and I suppose he thought he ought to try to salvage something from the day.
“Is he going to make a speech?” shouted Cicero as we followed Palicanus toward the tribunal.
“He does not really make speeches,” replied Palicanus over his shoulder. “Not yet, anyway.”
“That is a mistake. They will expect him to say something.”
“Well, they will just have to be disappointed.”
“What a waste,” Cicero muttered to me in disgust. “What I would not give to have an audience such as this! How often do you see so many voters in one place?”
But Pompey had little experience in public oratory, and besides he was accustomed to commanding men, not pandering to them. With a final wave to the crowd he clambered down from the platform. Crassus followed suit, and the applause slowly died away. There was a palpable sense of anticlimax, as people stood around, wondering what they should do next. “What a waste,” repeated Cicero. “I would have given them a show.”
Behind the tribunal was a small, enclosed area, where it was the custom for the magistrates to wait before going up to officiate on election day. Palicanus conducted us into it, past the guards, and here, a moment or two later, Pompey himself appeared. A young black slave handed him a cloth, and he dabbed at his sweating face and wiped the back of his neck. A dozen senators waited to greet him, and Palicanus thrust Cicero into the middle of the line, then drew back with Quintus, Lucius, and me to watch. Pompey was moving down the queue, shaking hands with each of the senators in turn, Afranius at his back to tell him who was who. “Good to meet you,” said Pompey. “Good to meet you. Good to meet you.” As he came closer I had a better opportunity to study him. He had a noble face, no question of it, but there was also a disagreeable vanity in those fleshy features, and his grand, distracted manner only emphasized his obvious boredom at meeting all these tedious civilians. He reached Cicero very quickly.
“This is Marcus Cicero, Imperator,” said Afranius.
“Good to meet you.”
He was about to move on, but Afranius took his elbow and whispered, “Cicero is considered one of the city’s foremost advocates, and was very useful to us in the Senate.”
“Was he? Well, then-keep up the good work.”
“I shall,” said Cicero quickly, “for I hope next year to be aedile.”
“Aedile?” Pompey scoffed at the very idea. “No, no, I do not think aedile. I have other plans in that direction. But I’m sure we can always find a use for a clever lawyer.”
And with that he really did move on-“Good to meet you…Good to meet you…”-leaving Cicero staring straight ahead and swallowing hard.
 
Roll V
THAT NIGHT, for the first and last time in all my years in his service, Cicero drank too much. I could hear him arguing over dinner with Terentia-not one of their normal, witty, icily courteous disputes, but a row which echoed throughout the small house, as she berated him for his stupidity in ever trusting such a dishonorable gang: Piceneans, all of them, not even proper Romans! “But then of course, you are not a proper Roman, either”-a dig at Cicero’s lowly provincial origins which invariably got under his skin. Ominously, I did not hear what he said back to her-it was delivered in such a quiet, malevolent tone-but whatever it was, it must have been devastating, for Terentia, who was not a woman easily shaken, ran from the dining room in tears and disappeared upstairs.
I thought it best to leave him well alone. But an hour later I heard a crash, and when I went in Cicero was on his feet and swaying slightly, staring at a broken plate. The front of his tunic was stained with wine. “I really do not feel well,” he said.
I got him up to his room by hooking his arm over my shoulder-not an easy procedure, as he was heavier than I-laid him on his bed, and unlaced his shoes. “Divorce,” he muttered into his pillow, “that is the answer, Tiro-divorce, and if I have to leave the Senate because I can’t afford it-well, so what? Nobody would miss me. Just another ‘new man’ who came to nothing. Oh, dear, Tiro!” I managed to get his chamber pot in front of him just before he was sick. Head down, he addressed his own vomit. “We shall go to Athens, my dear fellow, and live with Atticus and study philosophy and no one here will miss us-” these last few words ran together into a self-pitying burble of slurred syllables which no shorthand symbol of mine could ever have reconstructed. I set the pot beside him and blew out the lamp. He was snoring even before I reached the door, but I confess I went to bed that night with a troubled heart.