I learned much about Cicero while he was out campaigning. Indeed, I would say that despite all the years we had spent together I never really knew him until I saw him in one of those small towns south of the Po-Faventia, say, or Claterna-with the late autumn light just starting to fade, and a cold wind blowing off the mountains, and the lamps being lit in the little shops along the main street, and the upturned faces of the local farmers gazing in awe at this famous senator on the back of his wagon, with his three fingers outstretched, pointing toward the glory of Rome. I realized then that, for all his sophistication, he was really still one of them-a man from a small provincial town with an idealized dream of the republic and what it meant to be a citizen, which burned all the fiercer within him because he, too, was an outsider.
For the next two months Cicero devoted himself entirely to the electors of Nearer Gaul, especially those around the provincial capital of Placentia, which actually lies on the banks of the Po and where whole families were divided by the vexed question of citizenship. He was given great assistance in his campaigning by the governor, Piso-that same Piso, curiously enough, who had threatened Pompey with the fate of Romulus if he pressed ahead with his desire for the special command. Piso was a pragmatist, whose family had commercial interests beyond the Po. He was thus in favor of extending the vote; he even gave Cicero a special commission on his staff, to enable him to travel more freely. We spent the festival of Saturnalia at Piso’s headquarters, imprisoned by snow, and I could see the governor becoming more and more charmed by Cicero’s manners and wit, to the extent that one evening, after plenty of wine, he clapped him on the shoulder and declared, “Cicero, you are a good fellow after all. A better fellow, and a better patriot than I realized. Speaking for myself, I would be willing to see you as consul. It is only a pity it will never happen.”
Cicero looked taken aback. “And why are you so sure of that?”
“Because the aristocrats will never stand for it, and they control too many votes.”
“It is true they have great influence,” conceded Cicero. “But I have the support of Pompey.”
Piso roared with laughter. “And much good may it do you! He is lording it around at the other end of the world, and besides-haven’t you noticed?-he never stirs for anyone except himself. Do you know who I would watch out for if I were you?”
“Catilina?”
“Yes, him, too. But the one who should really worry you is Antonius Hybrida.”
“But the man is a half-wit!”
“Cicero, you disappoint me. Since when has idiocy been a bar to advancement in politics? You take it from me-Hybrida is the man the aristocrats will rally around, and then you and Catilina will be left to fight it out for second place, and do not look to Pompey for help.”
Cicero smiled and affected unconcern, but Piso’s remarks had struck home, and as soon as the snowfall melted we set off back to Rome at maximum speed.
WE REACHED THE CITY in the middle of January, and to begin with all seemed well. Cicero resumed his hectic round of advocacy in the courts, and his campaign team once again met weekly under the supervision of Quintus, who assured him his support was holding firm. We were minus young Caelius, but his absence was more than made up for by the addition of Cicero’s oldest and closest friend, Atticus, who had returned to live in Rome after an absence in Greece of some twenty years.
I must tell you a little about Atticus, whose importance in Cicero’s life I have so far only hinted at, and who was about to become extremely significant indeed. Already rich, he had recently inherited a fine house on the Quirinal Hill together with twenty million in cash from his uncle, Quintus Caecilius, one of the most loathed and misanthropic moneylenders in Rome, and it says much about Atticus that he alone remained on reasonable terms with this repulsive old man right up to his death. Some might have suspected opportunism, but the truth was that Atticus, because of his philosophy, had made it a principle never to fall out with anyone. He was a devoted follower of the teachings of Epicurus-“that pleasure is the beginning and end of living happily”-although I hasten to add that he was an Epicurean not in the commonly misunderstood sense, as a seeker after luxury, but in the true meaning, as a pursuer of what the Greeks call ataraxia, or freedom from disturbance. He consequently avoided arguments and unpleasantness of any kind (needless to say, he was unmarried) and desired only to contemplate philosophy by day and dine by night with his cultured friends. He believed that all mankind should have similar aims and was baffled that they did not: he tended to forget, as Cicero occasionally reminded him, that not everyone had inherited a fortune. He never for an instant contemplated undertaking anything as upsetting or dangerous as a political career, yet at the same time, as an insurance against future mishap, he had taken pains to cultivate every aristocrat who passed through Athens-which, over two decades, was a lot-by drawing up their family trees and presenting them as gifts, beautifully illustrated by his slaves. He was also extremely shrewd with money. In short, there can never have been anyone quite so worldly in his pursuit of unworldliness as Titus Pomponius Atticus.
He was three years older than Cicero, who stood somewhat in awe of him, not only because of his wealth but also his social connections, for if there is one man guaranteed to enjoy an automatic entrée into smart society it is a rich and witty bachelor in his middle forties with an unfeigned interest in the genealogy of his host and hostess. This made him invaluable as a source of political intelligence, and it was from Atticus that Cicero now began to realize how formidable was the opposition to his candidacy. First, Atticus heard over dinner from his great friend Servilia-the half sister of Cato-that Antonius Hybrida was definitely running for the consulship. A few weeks after that, Atticus reported a comment of Hortensius (another of his acquaintances) to the effect that Hybrida and Catilina were planning to run on a joint ticket. This was a serious blow, and although Cicero tried to make light of it-“oh well, a target that is double the size is twice as easy to hit”-I could see that he was shaken, for he had no running mate of his own, and at this stage had no serious prospect of finding one.
But the really bad news came just after the senatorial recess in the late spring. Atticus sent a message that he needed to see the Cicero brothers urgently, so when the courts had closed for the day all three of us made our way up to his house. This was a perfect bachelor setup, built on a promontory next to the Temple of Salus-not large, but with the most wonderful views across the city, especially from the library, which Atticus had made the centerpiece of the house. There were busts of the great philosophers around the walls, and many little cushioned benches to sit on, for Atticus’s rule was that while he would never lend a book, any of his friends were free whenever they liked to come up and read or even make their own copies. And it was here, beneath a head of Aristotle, that we found Atticus reclining that afternoon, dressed in the loose white tunic of a Greek, and reading, if I remember rightly, a volume of Kyriai doxai, the principal doctrines of Epicurus.
He came straight to the point. “I was at dinner last night on the Palatine, at the home of Metellus Celer and the Lady Clodia, and among the other guests was our former consul, no less an aristocrat than-” he blew on an imaginary trumpet “-Publius Cornelius Lentulus Sura.”