was satisfied that I had never failed in my duty towards him. My mother too was pleased to have me at home, finding my presence a great comfort, as my poor father grew ever more capricious and absurdly demanding. Indeed it was fortunate that I was there, since I was able to thwart a scheme he had devised to leave almost half of his property to 'the common good of the Roman people'. The deluded old man believed that this would secure him the fame which he had not achieved in life — as if this could possibly matter to him when he was dead, while it would have been a serious inconvenience to us (or so it seemed then, Artixes) to be deprived of our rightful inheritance.
Finally, Clodia having departed into the dark chamber of her own death-journey, I was agreeably engaged in an affair with a young Phrygian dancer, a creature of unquenchable gaiety and acrobatic inventiveness in the art of love. I would certainly have been loth to leave Rome before I had exhausted this young person's considerable charms, which seemed to me to combine the ardour of Clodius with the seductive sluttishness of Cleopatra.
So it was with equanimity that I said 'Farewell' to Caesar, and it was in truth a relief to be free of his overpowering and demanding presence.
Rather to my surprise I found myself being cultivated by Cicero. I have mentioned him several times in this memoir, Artixes, and generally, I think, disparagingly. Well, there was good reason for that, but it occurs to me that I may have conveyed an inadequate impression of this remarkable man. For he was remarkable: one of the few men in Rome to have achieved the highest position in the State without the advantage of either birth or great wealth (though he acquired the latter, of course).
He was now, I suppose, about sixty. (I have, of course, no works of reference to hand and must rely on my memory and my impressions.) His great days were behind him. It was almost twenty years since he had had his finest hour, when, as consul, he exposed and destroyed Catiline's conspiracy. He had bored everyone ever since with his accounts of how he had saved the State. It was indeed one of those triumphs which had ill consequences for their author. Cicero had put Roman citizens to death without trial, and this crime pursued him all the rest of his days. That was what his enemies — and his sharp tongue had won him many — recalled when he boasted of his achievement. It had won him the fierce enmity of my adored Clodius, and so, as a young man, I never heard good of Cicero. But I have already recounted what Clodia said about the man who defended the murderer of her brother and our lover.
Nevertheless no one has ever denied Cicero's intellect, and few his charm. When he set himself to please, he usually succeeded. Even Caesar, who distrusted him on account of his vanity and indecision, delighted in his company. And I confess that, despite all that I knew and all that lay horridly between us, I was flattered to be invited to his dinner-table.
He alternated that spring between excitement and depression. He knew that he had blundered at the commencement of the civil wars when, as a result of his vanity and poor judgment, he had attached himself to Pompey and the conservatives in the Senate.
'I risked life and property for their cause,' he said, 'and yet, you know, I was never appreciated by them. I was excluded from Pompey's council, though I had greater and deeper experience than any who surrounded him. Of course Pompey was ever easily influenced. All the same you would not have thought he could be such a fool as to ignore the value of my advice. But there it is. He was a great man, but limited. He was always conscious of his intellectual inferiority to me, and, I suppose, also to Caesar.'
He often spoke in this vein. It was clear, too, that he still believed he had a political future. I could have disillusioned him, but it seemed more polite, and perhaps more useful, to listen to his speculations.
'Caesar has achieved much,' he said. 'The question is what does he intend to do with the power he has accumulated. I realise naturally that this matter cannot be resolved till these wretched wars have been brought to a successful conclusion. But that can't be long now. I have a great respect for Cato, but' — he poured wine and sniggered — 'only someone with as little self-knowledge as that dear man could suppose him to be a match for Caesar on the field of battle. So Cato will lose in Africa, and then Caesar will turn on Gnaeus Pompey, who, between you and me, my dear, is little more than a brigand, and drive him out of his Spanish fastness, and then… and then, where shall we be?'
'Who can tell?' I said, knowing I was not supposed to supply an answer.
'The first essential is that the Republic should be reconstituted. I am sure Caesar understands this, aren't you? After all, what else can he do? Rome will not tolerate a Perpetual Dictator, the government of a single person. I realise that he may wish to be granted the dictatorship for an indefinite period, that's natural enough, but equally, it must be largely an honorific, at most supervisory, title. If we are to have the government of a single person, what should we call him? A king? We Romans will never tolerate monarchy. Caesar would have to be mad to suppose we might. And one thing we all know about Caesar is that he is not mad. Or is he, young Brutus?'
'You have already answered that question, sir,' I replied.
'Quite so. But we must consider that these terrible wars have deprived us of many able men, and torn the heart out of many noble families. The list of the illustrious dead is long and melancholy. Moreover discord, resentment, and the desire for revenge govern many of their heirs. How are the parties to be reconciled? Where shall we find the means of establishing a new concord of the different orders in the State? How shall we reconcile the demands of the victorious soldiery with the rights of landed proprietors? What steps are necessary to re- establish the authority of the consuls? How do we govern this great Empire which we have won? These are all matters which will perplex us during the period of arduous reconstruction which must follow the end of the wars. You, Decimus Brutus, are deservedly deep in Caesar's confidence. What does he plan? How does he propose to. set about this reconstruction? For my part, I cannot see how it can be achieved unless he is prepared to surrender power and authority back to those bodies which properly exercise them. You cannot, it seems to me, perpetuate a system evolved to answer a crisis when that crisis has itself disappeared.'
'No doubt Caesar has given consideration to these matters,' I said. 'They are what must be discussed. I do not think I am at liberty to expatiate further.'
The position was delicate, you see. The questions Cicero raised were proper and must indeed have occurred to anyone who had reflected on the situation. I knew, however, that Caesar shied away from exploring them. He preferred always to act according to the promptings of instinct. He was fond of remarking that 'Decisions are best made when they force themselves upon you; that is, when the hour is ripe.'
But it would have been impolitic to hint in this gathering that we (Caesar's friends, that is) had really no idea of how the Constitution should be reformed post-bellum.
'The question surely is whether, or to what extent, something which has been shattered can ever be repaired?'
The speaker was scarcely more than a boy, an adolescent, whose chin seemed innocent of the razor. He was slight, but compactly made. He had clear grey eyes, sweetly curving lips, and light hair which flopped over his left eye. He spoke in a cool voice, and did not look at the company but seemed to be examining his finely formed and shapely arm which rested on the back of the couch on which he lay. I had arrived late that evening, having been detained on a matter of urgent business, and had not been introduced to him; Cicero, like many egotists, was often careless in his observation of elementary good manners. The boy had looked at me two or three times in the course of our supper, through long eyelashes, smiling as if he knew me and we had an understanding denied to the others present. I wondered who he was, and found myself interested.
Cicero was surprised by his interjection.
'What do you mean?' he said.
The boy hesitated. His tongue stroked his lower lip and he kept his eyes fixed on his arm (golden-brown, shadow-dappled, smooth as alabaster).
'It's presumptuous of me, I know. I've so little experience. But if it was the demands of Empire which broke the traditional structure of the Republic, then I don't see how that can be restored, unless we were to abandon Empire, which is unthinkable.'
Cicero pressed the tips of his fingers together, moved them apart, brought them together two or three times, elevated his chin, held the attention of all.
'Hmm,' he said, 'those are deep thoughts for one so young, and not unintelligent, not unintelligent by any means, no. Let me see now.. Yes. I think I see where you are at error — error which is, as you sagely suggest yourself, perhaps inescapable on account of your inexperience. (And let me say in passing that I commend you for admitting your inexperience, which is a fault to which the young rarely confess, though we might all agree that it vitiates any opinion they might express on any subject.) So, my dear boy, your error consists, in my opinion, for
