Lustrum

wouldn't work. If we deny Caesar Rabirius, he's perfectly capable of trumping up a similar charge against Catulus or Isauricus – and can you imagine the consequences of that?'

Servius meanwhile had picked up the writ and was studying it intently. His eyesight was weak and he had to hold the document so close to the candelabrum I feared it might catch fire. ' Perduellio,' he muttered. 'That's a strange coincidence. I was planning to propose in the senate this very month that the statute of perduellio be repealed. I'd even looked up all the precedents. I have them laid out on my desk at home.'

'Perhaps that's where Caesar got the idea,' said Quintus. 'Did you mention it to him?'

Servius's face was still pressed to the writ. 'Of course not. I never speak to him. The fellow's an utter scoundrel.' He glanced up to discover Cicero staring at him. 'What is it?'

'I think I know how Caesar might have heard of perduellio.'

'How?'

Cicero hesitated. 'Your wife was at Caesar's house when we arrived this afternoon.'

'Don't be absurd. Why would Postumia visit Caesar? She barely knows him. She was with her sister all day.'

'I saw her. So did Tiro.'

'Well then, maybe you did, but I'm sure there's some innocent explanation.' Servius pretended to carry on reading. After a while he said, in a low and resentful voice, 'I was puzzled why you'd waited till after dinner to discuss Caesar's proposal. Now I understand. You felt unable to speak openly in front of my wife, in case she ran to his bed and repeated what you said!'

It was a horribly embarrassing moment. Quintus and Atticus both stared at the floor; even Rufus held his tongue for a change.

'Servius, Servius, old friend,' said Cicero, taking him by the shoulders. 'You're the man in Rome I most wish to see succeed me as consul. My trust in you is absolute. Never doubt it.'

'But you have insulted the honour of my wife, which is also an insult to me, so how can I accept your trust?' He pushed Cicero's hands away and walked with dignity out of the room.

'Servius!' called Atticus, who could not bear any kind of unpleasantness. But the poor cuckold had already gone, and when Atticus moved to follow him, Cicero said quietly, 'Leave him, Atticus. It's his wife he needs to speak to, not us.'

There was a long silence, during which I strained my ears for the sound of raised voices in the tablinum, but the only noise was of dishes being cleared from the dining room. Eventually, Rufus gave a roar of laughter. 'So that's why Caesar is always one step ahead of his enemies! He has spies in all your beds!'

'Shut up, Rufus,' said Quintus.

'Damn Caesar!' cried Cicero suddenly. 'There's nothing dishonourable about ambition. I'm ambitious myself. But his lust for power is not of this world. You look into those eyes of his, and it's like staring into some dark sea at the height of a storm!' He flung himself into his chair and sat drumming his fingertips against the arms. 'I don't see what choice I have. At least if I agree to his terms I can gain myself some time. They've already been working on this damned bill of theirs for months.'

'What's so wrong with giving free farms to the poor anyway?' asked Rufus, who, like many of the young, had populist sympathies. 'You've been out on the streets. You've seen what it's like this winter. People are starving.'

'I agree,' said Cicero. 'But it's food they need, not farms. Farming demands years of skill, and back-breaking labour. I'd like to see those layabouts I met outside Caesar's house today working the fields from dawn till dusk! If we're forced to rely on them for food, we'll all be starving in a year.'

'At least Caesar is concerned about them-'

' Concerned about them? Caesar is concerned about no man except himself. Do you really think Crassus, the richest man in Rome, is concerned about the poor? They want to dole out the public land – at no expense to themselves, by the way – to create an army of supporters so huge it will keep them in power for ever. Crassus has his eyes on Egypt. The gods alone know what Caesar wants – the entire planet, probably. Concerned! Really, Rufus, you do talk like a young fool sometimes. Have you learnt nothing since you came to Rome except how to gamble and whore?'

I do not think Cicero meant his words to sound as harsh as they did, but I could tell they struck Rufus like a slap, and when he turned away his eyes were shining with suppressed tears – and not merely of humiliation, either, but of anger, for he was no longer the charming adolescent idler Cicero had taken in as a pupil, but a young man of growing ambition: a change Cicero had failed to notice. Even though the discussion went on for a while longer, Rufus took no further part in it.

'Tiro,' said Atticus, 'you were there at Caesar's house. What do you think your master should do?'

I had been waiting for this moment, for I was invariably the last to be asked his opinion in these inner councils, and I always tried to prepare something to say. 'I think that by agreeing to Caesar's proposal, it may be possible to gain some concessions in the bill. These can then be presented to the patricians as a victory.'

'And then,' mused Cicero, 'if they refuse to accept them, the blame will clearly be theirs, and I shall be released from my obligation. It's not a bad idea.'

'Well said, Tiro!' declared Quintus. 'Always the wisest man in the room.' He yawned excessively. 'Now, come on, brother.' He reached down and pulled Cicero to his feet. 'It's getting late and you have a speech to make tomorrow. You must get some sleep.'

By the time we made our way through the house to the vestibule, the place was silent. Terentia and Tullia had retired to bed. Servius and his wife had gone home. Pomponia, who hated politics, had refused to wait for her husband and had departed with them, according to the porter. Outside, Atticus's carriage was waiting. The snow gleamed in the moonlight. From somewhere down in the city rose the familiar cry of the night-watchman, calling the midnight hour.

'A new year,' said Quintus.

'And a new consul,' added Atticus. 'Well done, my dear Cicero. I am proud to be your friend.'

They shook his hand and slapped his back, and eventually – but only grudgingly, I could not help noticing – Rufus did the same. Their words of warm congratulation flickered briefly in the icy air and vanished. Afterwards, Cicero stood in the street, waving to their carriage until it rounded the corner. As he turned to go back indoors he stumbled slightly, and plunged his foot into the snowdrift piled against the doorstep. He pulled out his wet shoe, shook it crossly and swore, and it was on the tip of my tongue to say it was an omen; but wisely, I think, I held my peace.

III

I do not know how the ceremony goes these days, when even the most senior magistrates are merely errand boys, but in Cicero's time the first visitor to call upon the new consul on the day of his swearing-in was always a member of the College of Augurs. Accordingly, just before dawn, Cicero stationed himself in the atrium alongside Terentia and his children to await the augur's arrival. I knew he had not slept well for I had heard him moving about upstairs, pacing up and down, which is what he always did when he was thinking. But his powers of recuperation were miraculous, and he looked fit and keen enough as he stood with his family, like an Olympian who has been training his whole life for one particular race and at last is about to run it.

When all was ready I signalled to the porter and he opened the heavy wooden door to admit the keepers of the sacred chickens, the pularii – half a dozen skinny little fellows, looking a bit like chickens themselves. Behind this escort loomed the augur, tapping the floor with his curved staff: a veritable giant in his full rig of tall conical cap and abundant purple robe. Little Marcus shrieked when he saw him coming down the passageway and hid behind Terentia's skirts. The augur that day was Quintus Caecilius Metellus Celer, and I should say something of him, for he was to be an important figure in Cicero's story. He was just back from fighting in the East – a real soldier, something of a war hero, in fact, after beating off an enemy attack on his winter quarters while greatly outnumbered. He had served under the command of Pompey the Great, who also happened to be married to his sister, which had not exactly hindered his promotion. Not that it mattered. He was a Metellus, and therefore more or less predestined to be consul himself in a couple of years; that day he was due to be sworn in as praetor. His