That was all he had to say. He never wept over the loss, and thereafter I barely heard him mention Pompey again.
Terentia did not offer to visit Cicero and he did not ask to see her; on the contrary: There is no reason for you to leave home at present, he wrote to her. It is a long, unsafe journey, and I do not see what good you can do if you come. He sat by the fire that winter and brooded on the state of his family. His brother and nephew were still in Greece and writing and speaking about him in the most poisonous terms: Vatinius and Atticus both showed him copies of their letters. His wife, whom he had no desire to meet, was refusing to send him any money to pay for his living expenses; when finally he arranged for Atticus to advance him some cash via a local banker, he discovered that she had deducted two thirds of it for her own use. His son was out all hours drinking with the local soldiers and refusing to attend to his studies: he yearned for war and often did not trouble to hide his contempt for his father’s situation.
But mostly Cicero brooded on his daughter.
He learned from Atticus that Dolabella, who had returned to Rome as tribune of the plebs, now ignored Tullia entirely. He had left the marital home and was having affairs all over the city, most notoriously with Antonia, the wife of Mark Antony (an infidelity that enraged Antony, even though he lived quite openly with his own mistress, Volumnia Cytheris, a nude actress; later he divorced Antonia and married Fulvia, the widow of Clodius). Dolabella gave Tullia no money for her upkeep, and Terentia – despite Cicero’s repeated pleas – was refusing to pay off her creditors, saying it was her husband’s responsibility. Cicero blamed himself entirely for the wreckage of his public and private lives. My ruin is my own work, he wrote to Atticus. Nothing in my adversity is due to chance. I am to blame for it all. Worse than the rest of my afflictions put together, however, is that I shall leave that poor girl despoiled of her father, of her inheritance, of all that was supposed to be hers …
In the spring, with still no word from Caesar who was said to be in Egypt with his latest paramour, Queen Cleopatra, Cicero received a letter from Tullia announcing her intention of joining him in Brundisium. He was alarmed that she should undertake such an arduous expedition alone. But it was too late for him to stop her – she had made sure she was already on the road before he learned of her intentions – and I shall never forget his horror when at last she arrived, after a month of travelling, attended only by a maid and one elderly male slave.
‘My darling girl, don’t tell me this is the extent of your entourage … How could your mother have allowed it? You might have been robbed, or worse.’
‘There’s no point in worrying about it now, Father. I’m here safe and well, aren’t I? And to see you again is worth any risk or discomfort.’
The journey showed the strength of the spirit that burned within that fragile frame, and soon her presence was brightening the entire household. Rooms shut up for the winter began to be cleaned and redecorated. Flowers appeared. The food improved. Even young Marcus tried to be civilised in her company. But more important than these domestic improvements was the revival in Cicero’s spirits. Tullia was a clever young woman: if she had been born a man, she would have made a good advocate. She read poetry and philosophy and – what was harder – understood them well enough to hold her own in a discussion with her father. She did not complain, but made light of her troubles. I believe her like on earth has never been seen, Cicero wrote to Atticus.
The more he came to admire her, the less he could forgive Terentia for the way she had treated her. Occasionally he would mutter to me, ‘What kind of mother allows her daughter to travel hundreds of miles without an escort, or stands by and allows her to be humiliated by tradesmen whose bills she cannot pay?’ One night when we were having dinner he asked Tullia straight out what she thought could explain Terentia’s behaviour.
Tullia answered simply, ‘Money.’
‘But that’s ridiculous. Money – it’s so demeaning.’
‘She’s got it into her head that Caesar will need to raise a huge sum to pay for the costs of the war, and the only way he’ll get it is by confiscating the property of his opponents – you chief among them.’
‘And for that reason she lets you live in penury? Where’s the logic in that?’
Tullia hesitated before replying. ‘Father, the last thing I want to do is to add to your anxieties. That’s why until this moment I’ve said nothing. But now that you seem stronger, I think you ought to know why I wanted to come, and why Mother wanted to stop me. She and Philotimus have been plundering your estate for months – perhaps years. Not just the rent from your properties, but your houses themselves. You’d barely recognise some of them any more – they’ve been almost entirely stripped.’
Cicero’s first reaction was disbelief. ‘It can’t be true. Why? How could she do such a thing?’
‘I can only tell you what she said to me: “He may sink into ruin because of his own folly but I shan’t let him take me with him.”’ Tullia paused and added quietly, ‘If you want the truth, I believe she’s been taking back her dowry.’
And now Cicero began to grasp the situation. ‘You mean she’s divorcing me?’
‘I don’t think she’s fully decided yet. But I believe she’s taking precautions in case it comes to that and you no longer have the means of repaying her yourself.’ She leaned across the table and grasped his hand. ‘Try not to be too angry with her, Father. Money is her only means of independence. She still has very strong feelings for you, I know it.’
Cicero, unable to control his emotions, left the table and went out into the garden.
Of all the disasters and betrayals that had struck him over recent years, this was the worst. It completed the collapse of his fortunes. He was numbed by it. What made it harder was that Tullia begged him to say nothing about it until such time as he could confront Terentia face to face, otherwise her mother would know it was she who was his informant. The notion of a meeting seemed a remote prospect. And then, out of the blue, just as the heat of the summer was starting to become uncomfortable, a letter arrived from Caesar.
Caesar Dictator to Cicero Imperator.
I have received various messages from your brother complaining of dishonesty on your part towards me and insisting that but for your influence he would never have taken up arms against me. I have sent these letters to Balbus to pass on to you. You may do with them as you wish. I have pardoned him, and his son. They may live where they please. But I have no desire to renew relations with him. His behaviour towards you confirms a certain low opinion I had begun to form of him in Gaul.
I am travelling ahead of my army and will return to Italy earlier than expected next month, landing at Tarentum, when I hope it will be possible for us to meet to settle matters regarding your own future once and for all.
Tullia was greatly excited when she read this: she called it ‘a handsome letter’. But Cicero was secretly thrown into confusion. He had hoped he would be allowed to make his way back quietly to Rome, without fuss. He viewed the prospect of actually meeting Caesar with dread. The Dictator would doubtless be friendly enough, even if the gang around him were rough and insolent. However, no amount of politeness could disguise the basic truth: that he would be begging for his life from a conqueror who had usurped the constitution. Meanwhile fresh reports were coming in almost every day from Africa, where Cato was raising a huge new army to continue to uphold the republican cause.