‘That’s too bad for him. Which way is my bath?’
No further mention was made of Mamurra – and yet, as Cicero observed, he must have been one of Caesar’s closest comrades for more than a decade. Oddly, that brief insight into the coldness of Caesar’s character is the thing I remember most clearly of his visit, for I was soon distracted by the house being full of noisy men, spread between three dining rooms, and naturally I was not at the same table as the Dictator. In my room they were all soldiers – a rough crowd, polite enough to begin with but soon drunk, and there was a lot of trooping in and out between courses to vomit on the beach. All the talk was of Parthia and the forthcoming campaign. Afterwards I asked Cicero what had passed between him and Caesar.
He said, ‘It was really surprisingly pleasant. We avoided politics and talked mostly of literature. He said that he had just read our Disputations and was full of compliments – “Except,” he said, “I have to tell you that I am the living refutation of your principal proposition.” “And what is that?” “You claim that one can only conquer one’s fear of death by living a good life. Well, according to your definition I have hardly done that, and yet I have no fear of dying. What is your answer?” To which I replied that for a man with no fear of dying, he certainly travelled with a large bodyguard.’
‘Did he laugh?’
‘No he did not! He turned very serious, as if I had insulted him, and said that as the head of state he had a responsibility to take proper precautions, that if anything happened to him there would be chaos, but this didn’t mean that he was afraid to die – far from it. So I probed a little further into the subject and asked why it was that he was so unafraid: did he believe the soul was eternal, or did he think we all die with our bodies?’
‘And what was his reply?’
‘He said that he didn’t know about anyone else, but that obviously he wouldn’t die along with his body because he was a god. I looked to see if he was joking but I’m not sure that he was. At that moment, I tell you honestly, I ceased to envy him all his power and glory. It has driven him mad.’
The only time I saw Caesar again that night was when he left. He emerged from the principal dining room, leaning on Cicero and laughing at some remark he had just made. He appeared slightly flushed with wine, which was rare for him as he usually drank in moderation, if at all. His soldiers formed into lines as an honour guard and he lurched off into the night supported by Philippus and followed by his officers.
The next morning Cicero wrote an account of the visit to Atticus: Strange that so onerous a guest should leave a memory not disagreeable. But once is enough. He is not the kind of person to whom one says, ‘Do drop round the next time you are in the neighbourhood.’
As far as I know, that was the last time Cicero and Caesar ever spoke to one another.
On the eve of our return to Rome, I rode over to look at my farm. It was difficult to find, almost invisible from the coastal road, at the end of a long track leading up into the hills: an ancient, ivy-covered building commanding a wonderful panorama of the island of Capri. There was an olive grove and a small vineyard surrounded by low dry-stone walls. Goats and sheep grazed in the fields and on the nearby slopes; the tinkle of their neck bells rang soft as wind chimes; otherwise the place was entirely silent.
The farmstead was modest but fully appointed: a courtyard with portico, barns containing an olive press and stalls and feed racks, a fish pond, a vegetable and herb garden, a dovecote, chickens, a sundial. Beside the wooden gate a shaded terrace with fig trees faced out to sea. Inside, up a stone staircase, beneath the terracotta roof, was a large, dry, raftered room where I could keep my books and write: I asked the overseer to have some shelves built. Six slaves maintained the place and I was glad to see that all appeared healthy, unfettered and well fed. The overseer and his wife lived on the premises and had a child; they could read and write. Forget Rome and its empire: this was more than world enough for me. I should have stayed and told Cicero that he would have to return to the city on his own – I knew it even at the time. But that would have been poor thanks for his generosity, and besides, there were still books he wanted to finish and my assistance was needed. So I bade farewell to my little household, undertook to return to them as soon as I could, and rode back down the hill.
The Spartan statesman Lycurgus, seven hundred years ago, is said to have observed:
When falls on man the anger of the gods,
First from his mind they banish understanding.
Such was to be the fate of Caesar. I am sure Cicero was correct: he had gone mad. His success had made him vain, and his vanity had devoured his reason.
It was around this time – ‘since the days of the week are all taken’, as Cicero joked – that he had the seventh month of the year retitled ‘July’ in his honour. He had already declared himself a god and decreed that his statue should be carried in a special chariot during religious processions. Now his name was added to those of Jove and the Penates of Rome in every official oath. He was granted the title Dictator for Life. He styled himself Emperor and Father of the Nation. He presided over the Senate from a golden throne. He wore a special purple and gold toga. To the statues of the seven ancient kings of Rome that stood on the Capitol, he added an eighth – himself – and his image was introduced on the coinage – another prerogative of royalty.
Nobody spoke now of the revival of constitutional freedom – it was surely only a matter of time before he was declared monarch. At the Lupercalian festival in February, watched by a crowd in the Forum, Mark Antony actually placed a crown upon his head, whether mockingly or as a serious gesture none could say; but it was placed there, and the people resented it. On the statue of Brutus – the distant forefather of our contemporary Brutus – who had driven out the kings of Rome and established the consulship, graffito appeared: If only you were alive now! And on Caesar’s statue someone scrawled:
Brutus was elected consul
When he sent the kings away;
Caesar sent the consuls packing,
Caesar is our king today.
He was scheduled to leave Rome at the start of his campaign of world conquest on the eighteenth day of March. Before he left, it was necessary for him to decree the results of all the elections for the next three years. A list was published. Mark Antony was to be consul for the remainder of the year alongside Dolabella; they would be succeeded by Hirtius and Pansa; Decimus Brutus (whom I shall henceforth call Decimus, to distinguish him from his kinsman) and L. Munatius Plancus would take over the year after that. Brutus himself was to be urban praetor and thereafter governor of Macedonia; Cassius was to be praetor and then governor of Syria; and so on. There were hundreds of names; it was drawn up like an order of battle.
The moment he saw it, Cicero shook his head in amazement at the sheer hubris of it: ‘Julius the god seems to have forgotten what Julius the politician never would: that every time you fill an appointment, you make one man grateful and ten resentful.’ On the eve of Caesar’s departure, Rome was full of angry, disappointed senators. For example, Cassius, already insulted not to be chosen for the Parthian campaign, was offended that the less-experienced Brutus should be given a praetorship superior to his. But the greatest resentment was Mark Antony’s at the prospect of sharing the consulship with Dolabella, a man whom he had never forgiven for committing adultery with his wife, and to whom he felt greatly superior; in fact such was his jealousy, he was actually using his powers as an augur to block the nomination on the grounds that it was ill-omened. A meeting of the Senate was summoned in Pompey’s portico for the fifteenth, three days before Caesar’s departure, to settle the issue once and for all. The rumour was that the Dictator would also demand to be granted the title of king at the same session.