Lustrum

Carcer. When in due course under questioning Bibulus denounced the land bill in violent language – 'You will not have your law this year, not even if you all want it!' – Vatinius arrested him and had him paraded along the bridge to the jail, like a prisoner of the pirates being made to walk the plank.

Cicero watched much of this from his garden, huddled in a cloak against the January chill. He felt very wretched and tried to keep out of it. Besides, he soon had more pressing problems of his own.

One morning in the midst of these tumultuous events, I opened the door to find Antonius Hybrida waiting outside in the street. It was more than three years since I had last set eyes on him, and at first I did not recognise him. He had grown very stout on the meats and vines of Macedonia, and even more florid, as if he had been coated in an extra layer of mottled red fat. When I took him into the library, Cicero jumped as if he had seen a ghost, which in a sense he had, for this was his past come back to haunt him – and with a vengeance. At the start of his consulship, when the two men had concluded their deal, Cicero had given a written undertaking to Hybrida that if he was ever prosecuted, he would appear as his advocate: now his former colleague had come to collect on that promise. He had brought a slave with him who carried the indictment, and Hybrida passed it across to Cicero with a hand that trembled so violently, I thought he was having a seizure. Cicero took it over to the light to study it.

'When was this served?'

'Today.'

'You realise what this is, don't you?'

'No. That's why I've brought the wretched thing straight round to you. I never could get the hang of all this legal talk.'

'This is a writ for treason.' Cicero scanned the document with an expression of increasing puzzlement. 'Odd. I would have thought they would have come after you for corruption.'

'I say, Cicero, there's no chance of some wine, is there?'

'Just a moment. Let's try to keep our heads clear for business for a little while longer. It says here that you lost an army in Histria.'

'Only the infantry.'

'Only the infantry!' Cicero laughed. 'When was that?'

'A year ago.'

'Who is the prosecutor? Has he been appointed yet?'

'Yes, he was sworn in yesterday. He's that protege of yours – young Caelius Rufus.'

The news came as a complete shock. That Rufus had become completely estranged from his former mentor was no secret. But that he should choose as his first significant foray into public life the prosecution of Cicero's consular colleague – that was an act of real treachery. Cicero actually sat down, he was so taken aback. He said, 'I thought it was Pompey who was most determined to have you put on trial?'

'He is.'

'Then why is he letting Rufus cut his teeth on such an important case?'

'I don't know. What about that wine now?'

'Forget the damned wine for a minute.' Cicero rolled up the writ and sat tapping it against the palm of his hand. 'I don't like the sound of this. Rufus knows a lot about me. He could bring up all kinds of things.' He threw it back into Hybrida's lap. 'I think you should get someone else to defend you.'

'But I want you! You're the best. We had an agreement, remember? I would give you a share of the money and you would shield me from prosecution.'

'I agreed to defend you if ever you were charged with corruption. I never said anything about treason.'

'That's not true. You're breaking your word.'

'Look, Hybrida, I'll appear as a witness in your support, but this could be an ambush – laid by Caesar, probably, or Crassus – and I'd be a fool to walk straight into it.'

Hybrida's eyes, though now buried deep in his flesh, were still very blue, like sapphires pressed into a lump of red clay. 'People tell me you've come up in the world,' he said. 'Houses everywhere.'

Cicero made a weary gesture. 'Don't try to threaten me.'

'All this,' said Hybrida, pointing around the library. 'Very nice. Do people know how you got the money to pay for it?'

'I warn you: I could as readily appear as a witness for the prosecution as for the defence.'

But the threat sounded hollow, and Cicero must have known it, for he suddenly wiped his hand across his face, as if trying to expunge some disturbing vision.

'I think you should join me in that cup of wine,' said Hybrida, with deep satisfaction. 'Things always look better after a little drink.'

On the evening before the vote on Caesar's land bill, we could hear loud noises rising from the forum – hammering and sawing, drunken singing, cheers, cries, the breaking of pots. At dawn, a shroud of brown smoke hung over the area beyond the Temple of Castor where the voting was to take place.

Cicero dressed carefully and went down to the forum, accompanied by two guards, two members of his household staff – myself and another secretary – and half a dozen clients who wished to be seen with him. All the streets and alleys leading to the voting ground were crammed with citizens. Many, when they recognised Cicero, stood out of the way to let him through. But at least an equal number deliberately blocked his path and had to be pushed out of the way by his guards. It was a struggle for us to make progress, and by the time we found a spot with a view of the temple steps, Caesar was already speaking. It was impossible to hear more than a few words. A great press of bodies, thousands of them, stretched between us and him. The majority looked to be old soldiers who had been there all night, and who had lit fires to cook and keep themselves warm. 'These men are not attending this assembly,' Cicero observed, 'they are occupying it.'

After some time we became aware of scuffling in the direction of the Via Sacra, on the opposite side of the crowd to where we were standing, and the word quickly went round that Bibulus had arrived with the three tribunes who were intending to veto the bill. It was a tremendously brave action on their part. All around us men began pulling out from beneath their clothing knives and even swords. Bibulus and his supporters were clearly having difficulty reaching the temple steps. We could not see them; we could follow their progress only by the origin of the shouts and the line of flailing fists. The tribunes were felled early on and carried away, but somehow Bibulus – and behind him, Cato, who had been released from prison – did at last manage to reach his objective.

Shaking off the hands that were trying to restrain him, he climbed up on to the platform. His toga had been torn away, leaving his shoulder bare, and blood was running down his face. Caesar glanced at him briefly, and carried on speaking. The fury of the crowd was deafening. Bibulus pointed to the heavens and made a cutting gesture across his throat. He repeated this several times until his meaning was obvious – as consul, he had observed the heavens and was declaring that the auguries were un favourable and no public business could be transacted. Still Caesar ignored him. And then two stout fellows climbed on to the platform carrying a big half- barrel, of the sort used to collect rainwater. They hoisted it above Bibulus's head and tipped it over him. I guess the crowd must have been shitting into it all night, for it was brimful of noxious brown liquid, and Bibulus was completely drenched. He tried to back away, skidded, his legs shot out from under him and he fell heavily on his backside. For a moment he was too winded to move. But then he saw that another barrel was being carried up on to the platform, and he scrambled away – I did not blame him – to the derisive laughter of thousands of citizens. He and his followers escaped from the forum and eventually found sanctuary in the Temple of Jupiter the Protector – the same building from which Cicero by his oratory had driven Sergius Catilina.

Thus, in the most contemptible of circumstances, was carried on to the statute book Caesar's great land reform act, which awarded farms to twenty thousand of Pompey's veterans and afterwards to those among the urban poor who could show they had more than three children. Cicero did not stay for the voting, which was a foregone conclusion, but slunk back to his house, where – such was his depression – he shunned all company, even Terentia's.

The following day, Pompey's soldiers were back on the streets again. They had spent the night celebrating and now they had shifted their attention to the senate house, crowding into the forum, waiting to see if the senate would dare to challenge the legality of what had happened. They left a narrow gangway through their ranks, wide enough for three or four men to walk abreast, and I found it intimidating to pass among them beside Cicero, even though the greetings they called out were friendly enough: 'Come on, Cicero!' 'Cicero – don't forget us!' Inside, I had never seen a more dejected assembly. It was the first day of the new month, and Bibulus, who had a bandage around his forehead, was in the chair. He rose at once and demanded that the house condemn the disgraceful