I have read your new Philippic and think it quite magnificent – worthy of Demosthenes himself. I only wish I could see the face of our latter-day Philip when he reads it. I learn he has decided against attacking me here, no doubt nervous that his men would refuse to take the field against Caesar’s son, and instead is marching his army rapidly to Nearer Gaul with the intention of wresting that province from your friend Decimus.
My dear Cicero, you must agree my position is stronger than we ever could have dreamed of when we met at your house in Puteoli. I am here now in Etruria seeking fresh recruits. They are flocking to me. And yet as ever I am in sore need of your wise advice. Can we not contrive a meeting? There is no man in all the world I would sooner speak with.
‘Well,’ said Cicero with a grin, ‘what do you think?’
I replied, ‘It’s very gratifying.’
‘Gratifying? Come now – use your imagination! It’s more than that! I’ve been thinking about it ever since I got it.’
After a slave had helped him out of his outdoor clothes, he beckoned me and Atticus to follow him into his study and asked me to close the door.
‘Here is the situation as I see it. Were it not for Octavian, Antony would have taken Rome and our cause would be finished by now. But fear of Octavian forced the wolf to drop his prey at the last moment and now he’s slinking north to devour Nearer Gaul instead. If he defeats Decimus this winter and takes the province – which he probably will – he will have the financial base and the forces to return to Rome in the spring and finish us off. All that stands between us and him is Octavian.’
Atticus said sceptically, ‘You really think Octavian has raised an army in order to defend what’s left of the republic?’
‘No, but equally is it in his interests to allow Antony to take control of Rome? Of course not. Antony at this juncture is his real enemy – the one who has stolen his inheritance and denies his claims. If I can persuade Octavian to see that, we may yet save ourselves from disaster.’
‘Possibly – but only to deliver the republic from the clutches of one tyrant into those of another; and a tyrant who calls himself Caesar at that.’
‘Oh, I don’t know if the lad is a tyrant – I think I may be able to use my influence to keep him on the side of virtue, at least until Antony is disposed of.’
‘His letter certainly seems to suggest he would listen to you,’ I said.
‘Exactly. Believe me, Atticus, I could show you thirty such letters if I could be bothered to find them, going all the way back to April. Why is he so eager for my counsel? The truth is the boy lacks a father figure – his natural father is dead; his stepfather is a goose; and his adopted father has left him the greatest legacy in history but no guidance on how to gain hold of it. Somehow I seem to have stepped into the paternal role, which is a blessing – not so much for me as for the republic.’
Atticus said, ‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I shall go and see him.’
‘In Etruria, in the middle of winter, at your age? It’s a hundred miles away. You must be mad.’
I said, ‘But you can hardly expect Octavian to come to Rome.’
Cicero waved away these objections. ‘Then we’ll meet halfway. That villa you bought the other year, Atticus, on Lake Volsinii – that would suit the purpose admirably. Is it occupied?’
‘No, but I can’t vouch for its comfort.’
‘That doesn’t matter. Tiro, draft a letter from me to Octavian proposing a meeting in Volsinii as soon as he can manage it.’
Atticus said, ‘But what about the Senate? What about the consuls-designate? You have no power to negotiate on behalf of the republic with anyone, let alone with a man at the head of a rebel army.’
‘Nobody is wielding power in the republic any more. That’s the point. It’s lying in the dust waiting for whoever dares to pick it up. Why shouldn’t I be the one to seize it?’
Atticus had no answer to that and Cicero’s invitation went off to Octavian within the hour. After three days of anxious waiting Cicero received his reply: Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see you again. I shall meet you in Volsinii on the sixteenth as you propose unless I hear that that has become inconvenient. I suggest we keep our rendezvous secret.
To ensure that no one would guess what he was up to, Cicero insisted we left in the darkness long before dawn on the morning of the fourteenth of December. I had to bribe the sentries to open the Fontinalian Gate especially for us.
We knew we would be venturing into lawless country, full of roaming bands of armed men, and so we travelled in a closed carriage escorted by a large retinue of guards and attendants. Once across the Mulvian Bridge we turned left along the bank of the Tiber and joined the Via Cassia, a road I had never travelled before. By noon we were climbing into hilly country. Atticus had promised me spectacular views. But the dismal weather Italy had endured ever since Caesar’s assassination continued to curse us, and the distant peaks of the pine-covered mountains were draped in mist. For the entire two days we were on the road it barely seemed to get light.
Cicero’s earlier ebullience had faded. He was uncharacteristically quiet, conscious no doubt that the future of the republic might depend on the coming meeting. On the afternoon of the second day, as we reached the edge of the great lake and our destination came into view, he began to complain of feeling cold. He shivered and blew on his hands, but when I tried to cover his knees with a blanket, he threw it off like an irritable child and said that although he might be ancient, he was not an invalid.
Atticus had bought his property as an investment and had only visited it once; still, he never forgot a thing when it came to money and he quickly remembered where to find it. Large and dilapidated – parts of it dated back to Etruscan times – the villa stood just outside the city walls of Volsinii, right on the edge of the water. The iron gates were open. Drifts of dead leaves had rotted in the damp courtyard; black lichen and moss covered the terracotta roofs. Only a thin curl of smoke rising from the chimney gave any sign it was inhabited. We assumed from the deserted grounds that Octavian had not yet arrived. But as we descended from the carriage, the steward hurried forward and said that a young man was waiting inside.
He was sitting in the tablinum with his friend Agrippa and he rose as we entered. I looked to see if the spectacular change in his fortunes was reflected at all in his manner or person, but he seemed exactly as before: quiet, modest, watchful, with the same unstylish haircut and youthful acne. He had come without any escort, he said, apart from two chariot drivers, who had taken their teams to be fed and watered in the town. (‘No one knows what I look like, so I prefer not to draw attention to myself; it is better to hide in plain sight, don’t you think?’) He clasped hands very warmly with Cicero. After the introductions were over, Cicero said, ‘I thought Tiro here could make a note of anything we agree on and then we could each have a copy.’
Octavian said, ‘So you’re empowered to negotiate?’
‘No, but it would be useful to have something to show to the leaders of the Senate.’
‘Personally, if you don’t mind, I would prefer it if nothing were written down. That way we can talk more freely.’
There is therefore no verbatim record of their conference, although I wrote up an account immediately afterwards for Cicero’s personal use. First Octavian gave a summary of the military situation as he understood it. He had, or would have shortly, four legions at his disposaclass="underline" the veterans from Campania, the levies he was raising in Etruria, the Martian and the Fourth. Antony had three legions, including the Larks, but also another entirely inexperienced, and was closing in on Decimus, whom he understood from his agents had retreated to the city of Mutina, where he was slaughtering and salting cattle and preparing for a long siege. Cicero said that the Senate had eleven legions in Further Gauclass="underline" seven under Lepidus and four under Plancus.