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28^th March 49 BCE, Formiae

Whatever the oculist from Capua has ground into the overpriced gunk that he is slapping onto my sore and swollen eyes, it stinks worse than a battlefield. Nonetheless, the comparison makes me smile, because it would never have occurred to me before my notable victory last year against the hill people of Cilicia, who would have preferred Parthian rule to that of the Republic. Had this ridiculous war not broken out, I might have been planning my triumph. Still, Gnaeus Pompeius addresses me as ‘general’ when he writes, which, although only proper, is still deeply satisfying coming from the man who finally vanquished Mithridates. Even Caesar… Damn and blast, I have been trying to forget about him. Just for an hour or so. I focus again on the pervasive reek of the eye medication.

‘What’s in this muck?’ I ask the doctor, a Greek in his mid-thirties named Polynikes.

‘Are you sure you want to know?’

I hesitate; maybe I don’t, after all. Medicines contain all manner of horrifying ingredients. ‘Well, how long do I need to keep it on for, then?’

‘As long as possible. At the very least an hour.’ I feel the cool weight of a damp cloth being placed over his eyes. Water splashes and glass clinks as Polynikes washes his hands, then packs away his little pots and bottles. ‘And I would recommend that you don’t read until your eyes have fully recovered. You read in lamplight, I assume?’

‘Often. Doesn’t everyone?’

The doctor sighs. ‘Proconsul, to be blunt, for a man of your age, reading in anything but full daylight is going to be detrimental to your sight. Wherever possible, avoid even that and have someone else read to you, and write in good black ink on parchment or papyrus rather than on a wax tablet.’

Nausea overwhelms me as I consider life as a blind man, stumbling around and bumping into everything, terrified to take even a single step. As if I didn’t already have enough to worry about. ‘Hercules, is it really that bad?’

‘No, no, not yet. The inflammation will subside and, so long as you follow my advice, and don’t strain your eyes unnecessarily, you’ll be fine. Rest, relax. Make offerings to Asclepius and Apollo. I’ll come back in a few days to reapply the poultice if that suits you.’

‘No, I’ll be setting out for Arpinum this afternoon. You won’t reveal the recipe, I suppose?’

He chuckles. ‘No, sir, but no need to worry. I know the herbalist in Arpinum: you’ll find he has no trouble making up something similar. I taught him how to do it myself when he was my apprentice.’

‘Good,’ I say, folding my hands over my chest. ‘Thank you, Polynikes. Good day. Dionysius, show the doctor out, will you, then send someone up to remove the poultice in an hour.’

‘I will, sir,’ the freedman acknowledges. He should be teaching the boys, but Quintus has taken our two sons out riding in the hills above Formiae.

‘Dionysius,’ I continue sternly, ‘be absolutely sure you don’t lose track of the time. I must have time to get ready before our visitor arrives.’

‘An hour, sir, I hear you.’

Their shoes tap away across the mosaic floor, leaving me alone in my private darkness. My eyes do feel a little better. The swelling has come and gone since I came home to Italy at last at the beginning of Januarius; there were a couple of days last month when I could barely open my left eye at all. Raising my eyebrows meets resistance, I discover. The evil-smelling sludge has begun to crust up under the cloth; my face is like a plastered wall.

Relax, the oculist said. The gods know how I am supposed to relax when Caesar’s horse is kicking up the mud no more than a dozen miles away. Having my eyes doctored this morning was, on reflection, a terrible idea. I need to move, to stride around the gardens, to do something to work out the restless energy stoppered up inside me. I should have gone riding with the others instead, even if it had meant turning back early. That’s another thing I won’t be able to do if I go blind…

Inevitably, my mind starts to trundle along familiar ruts. I normally write to Atticus at this time of day to help me organise my thoughts or discuss news when I have it. I suppose I could call Dionysius back in and dictate, but there would be no point. I’ve already written about Caesar’s visit and without news of the actual events and conversation, I have nothing further to add. Atticus’ voice intrudes, pointing out that I could have avoided this meeting if only I’d joined Pompeius already. I silence it firmly; I have had excellent reasons not to join the shameful exodus from Italy. Pompeius acted like a fool, expecting every citizen to spring up at his command to repel Caesar’s invasion of the peninsula, and when they didn’t, abandoned the city itself like a rat fleeing a dog. Domitius may have failed to hold Corfinium, but at least he did something! Gods, how can Pompeius think this course of action is the right one? The honourable one?

No, I mustn’t become agitated again. Taking deep breaths, I rotate my ankles and stretch out my toes until I feel a little better. I am well aware that I don’t have the authority to correct Rome’s most successful living general, Caesar’s spectacular conquest of Gaul notwithstanding. I’ve had some small military success recently, yes, but if I enter Pompeius’ command tent and offer my opinion, I’ll be shouted down or, worse, ignored. What use can Rome’s finest orator – I flatter myself, but it is universally acknowledged – be in a camp full of braying mules and bawling centurions and hobnailed boots?

Even so, I’ll be on my way soon, because that is the only right thing to do. After Quintus and I take our boys to Arpinum so that young Marcus can come of age in our hometown, I will make preparations for all four of us to leave for Brundisium. Even though it has been mere weeks since I landed at Capua. I feel tears prick at my mortared eyes. Every day I was in Cilicia, Rome’s dutiful governor, I yearned to come home. Wrote letter after letter to Atticus and Caelius and anyone else I could think of who might have any influence in making sure a new man was sent out promptly at the end of the year to liberate me. If there was any chance that I could now stay in Italy with honour, I would take it.

But that would mean acting as Caesar’s stooge in what remains of the senate and that I will not do. I am the man who tore apart Catilina’s conspiracy. I will not be a mouthpiece for tyranny.

Curse Pompeius. It was by his law that I was stuck in Cilicia for over a year, when I might have been here, a Nestor mediating between these two men who call themselves my friends and saving the Republic from this ruinous war.

The thick, fetid poultice and damp cloth weigh down my eyelids, lulling me into a stuttering sleep, despite my preoccupation. Even with the scent of damp herbs clogging my nostrils, I would have been grateful for this the nights before my biggest cases. I don’t dream, and wake in darkness with a start at the sound of my name.

‘Who’s that?’ I snap, then remember why I asked to be woken. ‘Immortal gods, is it that time already? Is he here?’ I sit up too quickly, forgetting that I have half of the oculist’s yearly supply of ointments on my face, and the damp cloth thuds onto my lap along with several congealed lumps of sludge. I manage not to spit out a curse. ‘Dionysius?’

‘Not quite,’ says my visitor in the voice I haven’t heard in nearly a decade and had hoped not to hear again for at least another hour. For a moment, I’m frozen in horror. I had planned to greet him in full state, resplendent in toga praetexta, my lictors bearing their laurelled fasces arrayed to either side of me. Instead, he has surprised me looking like a leper and probably smelling worse. I wish now that I’d travelled north to meet him at Curio’s place in the Alban Hills, but I didn’t want to look like a supplicant, called in to see him by a secretary from a queue of his clients. After all, my imperium as governor of Cilicia, which I have never formally given up, is equal to his own. Gods, though, that would have been infinitely better than this humiliation. ‘I’m afraid I insisted on being shown in,’ he continues, closer now. I flinch when he settles himself on the edge of my couch. ‘Don’t punish your man, he did warn me you were resting, but I’m on a tight schedule and we have much to discuss. It’s good to see you, old friend. But what’s that stuff all over your eyes? It stinks like a midden.’

Deciding things can’t really get any worse unless my clothes spontaneously drop off, I rally. ‘I would say it’s good to see you too, Caesar, but my eyes are still crusted up. If you wait a few moments, I’ll call someone to help me clean up.’

‘As I say, I’m in rather a hurry, old friend. I must be in Rome by the kalends and I have other business to attend to on the way. We have a bowl just here on the table with fresh water and a cloth. I’m certain that between us we can make you quite presentable.’

Perhaps things can get worse after all; the thought of Caesar attending to me like a servant turns my stomach. ‘You’re quite alone?’ I can’t hear anyone else, but I want to be sure, having no intention of allowing this to happen in front of witnesses.

To my further consternation, he chuckles. ‘Yes, yes, quite alone, Marcus. I left everyone downstairs being fed and watered by your accommodating staff. No Quintus, either? I thought he and the boys were here with you.’

‘Quintus has taken them for a short ride. He expected to return before you arrived,’ I lie. Quintus doesn’t want to see Caesar any more than I do, having wisely followed my advice not to join his ragtag rebel army, despite serving for so long under him in Gaul.

He doesn’t press the matter. ‘A pity; I’d have liked to see him. Well, then, no one will disturb us until we call. Now, keep quite still and do try not to speak until I’m finished, will you?’

I raise my hand carefully so as not to accidentally slap him in the face. ‘I really can manage by myself.’

‘But there will be a lot less mess if you stop being stubborn. Let me get the worst of it off, then you can tidy up around the edges once you can see well enough not to get water everywhere.’

He’s worse than both my wife, my daughter and Tiro put together, I decide, but restrict myself to a sullen grunt and let him get on with it. It was never any use arguing with him; the man has always acted like a second Xerxes.

The bronze feet of the table screech against the tessellated floor; then I hear him dunking a rag in the water and wringing it out. I can’t help twitching as his warm fingertips gently pull my skin taut in methodical sections to allow him to wipe the itching, rancid mess off my cheeks and eyelids with precise, efficient movements. I try to push apart my claggy eyelids, causing him to tut.

‘Not yet. Here.’ He presses a towel into my hand. ‘You don’t want to get any of that in your eyes.’

Carefully, I flick away the last fragments of the poultice until I feel confident that it’s safe to try opening my eyes again. I blink fiercely to bring him into focus and stare, noting the marks of nearly a decade’s passing. Never fleshy, his fine bones are even more prominent than I remember, and his hair, painstakingly arranged as always, is much thinner and liberally flecked with iron. Still a handsome bastard, though, with far too few lines on his face considering the arduous life he’s lived, and his warm, politician’s smile makes him look closer to forty than fifty. Someone who didn’t know either of us might mistake me for his father.

‘That’s better,’ Caesar says with satisfaction. ‘Although the inflammation still looks nasty. I wish you’d mentioned it. I could have brought my own doctor.’

His condescension grates on me. ‘There’s really no need. My oculist knows his business and has an excellent reputation in Formiae.’ I try to restart the whole encounter, setting down the towel and extending my hand. Our relative positions make the handshake slightly awkward. ‘We might be more comfortable on the terrace,’ I suggest.

‘Lead on, then,’ he agrees, the soul of amiability.

The sun has climbed high, too warm for March by far. And Caesar’s to blame for that as well, I think grumpily, pulling my face back out of a scowl before he notices. The pontifex maximus is responsible for inserting extra months when necessary to keep the calendar in line with the seasons, but our high priest has been far too busy disporting himself in Gaul to do his job properly.

To my annoyance, a tray of refreshments – wine, small rolls, apples and peaches - already sits on the small ebony table. Damn him – it is as if I am a guest in my own house. Wresting back control, I pour the wine into glass beakers, hand him one, and sip from the other. I try not to grimace at the amount of water that has already been added. We settle ourselves into the two basket chairs, which are angled to admire the view over the shining Tyrrhenian Sea.

‘Your climbing roses are splendid,’ Caesar says, inhaling appreciatively. ‘And one couldn’t ask for a finer view. That must be the Caietan promontory just over there?’

‘Indeed. On a very clear day, you can just make out Scipio’s villa in the hills above the town. Plancus owns the place now.’ Bought with his share of the staggering loot from Gaul, I add in the privacy of my mind. The thought triggers an old, stale twinge of regret. Had I accepted that offer Caesar made me of a place on his staff, that villa might have been mine, and many other woes avoided besides. The Gallic campaigns have set many men up for life, including men I recommended to Caesar personally. I had the best of reasons for refusing him, but it still makes me sick to think that my proteges enjoy financial security while I have to count every sesterce.

‘I’m grateful to you for introducing him to me. He made a surprisingly reliable legate,’ Caesar says, taking a bite out of a small roll patterned with sesame seeds. He has one arm draped over the back of his chair, entirely at his ease. He thinks this conversation is a formality, I realise, suddenly incensed. Does he think me a weak-minded geriatric easily won over by his famous charm and calculated kindness? ‘Enough of a mind to be useful, but not inclined to creativity, which suits me well in a subordinate. I’ve sent him ahead to Spain with Gaius Fabius.’

‘You leave soon, then?’

‘Yes, Petreius and Afranius must be neutralised before I can even think of crossing over to Greece. I plan to set out immediately after the senate meeting on the kalends and reach Massilia within two nundinae. We can travel together as far as Velitrae, where I’ll leave you for my house at Pedum.’

If my cup were alive, I would have crushed it to death. ‘Caesar, I have made my position perfectly clear. I’m not going to Rome. In fact, this very afternoon, we will all be setting out for Arpinum to celebrate my son’s coming of age.’

That aggravating smile broadens. ‘Can young Marcus be a man already? When I last saw him, he stood no higher than my hip. Well, I quite understand your wish for the boy to come of age in your hometown. All I ask is that you delay the celebration by a few days to attend the meeting. You won’t have heard that I’ve added a vote to confirm your triumph to the agenda. You must be there to receive your colleagues’ acclaim. Afterwards, by all means, visit Arpinum on the way back to Formiae – or go to whichever of your houses you choose.’

‘Out of the question.’ I surprise myself with the firmness of my answer. The gods know how much I want my triumph, but not like this. ‘With respect, this meeting of yours is irregular, since both the consuls have sailed to Greece with Pompeius.’

‘Come now, it’s hardly improper for a praetor to convene the senate in the consuls’ absence. On the other hand, you’re right in that it’s not quite run-of-the-mill, which is why I would like as many consulars to be present as possible to demonstrate that Rome is soundly governed and in good order.’

I can’t help gaping. ‘“Soundly governed and in good order”? Caesar, the Republic is in a state of civil war. A hundred purple-bordered togas and curule chairs couldn’t convince any man that all is well!’

His ink-dark eyes harden; at last he takes me seriously. ‘A state which you know well I have tried my utmost to avoid, but which has been forced upon us all by Gnaeus Pompeius and his new friends. Do we really need to repeat in person the endless words we’ve exchanged on wax and papyrus on this matter?’

‘I haven’t anything to add to them, Caesar, so I fear we must.’

‘Marcus, I have come in person to show you the respect I have for you and so that you can see that my wish for you to advise me is sincere. You and I are of one mind: peace and harmony between citizens must be restored as quickly and harmlessly as possible. You can help me achieve that by returning to the city and taking your rightful place in the front ranks of the senate.’

‘This is very flattering, but there are more than half a dozen other consulars still in Italy who would be far more willing than I to serve your purpose. Your cousin Lucius springs easily to mind. Or Piso and Philippus?’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘Certainly, provided I can prise Piso away from his books, but my cousin, father-in-law, and the husband of my niece hardly represent a cross-section of consulars.’

‘Then call upon Marcellinus, Lucius Volcacius or Piso Frugi. Manius Lepidus is right here in Formiae.’

‘You know your own worth better than that, I think. All these men will be far more easily persuaded to come if they know you’ve agreed to attend. No man stands for liberty, honour and moderation more stoutly than Marcus Tullius Cicero. Conversely, if you refuse me, they will naturally assume you condemn my actions.’

As will I goes unsaid. A threat, I suppose. ‘You have my letters as proof that I don’t,’ I point out, shrugging. ‘Show them if you like.’

‘That being so,’ Caesar says with a hint of impatience, ‘why are you so adamant that you won’t come? I would have thought that after nearly two years away, you would be eager to dive back into politics again. Rome is sorely in need of her father.’

I wince. They called me that fourteen years ago when I was consul: father of the nation, a title given to no man since Camillus, who drove the Gauls from Rome. Quintus Catulus, the most revered and stately of the consulars, thrust my hand in the air the moment he heard Catilina’s followers had been executed and bellowed the accolade clear across the forum. I’ll never forget that moment when every man in that vast space roared it back at us, loud enough to split the sky. For Caesar to imply that supporting him is equivalent to what I achieved that day is grotesque.

‘Not so long ago,’ I say, struggling to keep my voice steady, ‘Gnaeus sat in that very chair, demanding that I pack my bags immediately and march with him to Brundisium.’ I pause to take a sip of horrible, watery wine.

He waits for me to continue, lips thin. I expect he resents being the second man at my door.

‘At present, I enjoy both your friendship and his and am obliged to you both for many kindnesses. All I desire is to achieve a reconciliation between you, but that will be impossible if I don’t at least maintain the appearance of neutrality, which I can’t possibly do if I attend the senate at your request. Surely you must see that, Caesar?’

Despite the reasonableness of my argument, his composure seems to crack. ‘Immortal gods, Cicero, what kindnesses have you ever received from Pompeius? You’ve always been more of a friend to him than he to you and everyone knows it but you. Would a friend have allowed you to be packed off to Cilicia? Or asked you to defend Milo? Or fled his house through the back door when you sought his aid against Clodius? The act of a coward, just like his abandonment of Italy.’

The force of his tirade strikes me as manufactured, a lawyer’s lightning strike of passion, which I myself have summoned any number of times in court to great effect. This is all part of the negotiation; he knows that I’ve cursed Pompeius thousands of times for those very betrayals. I rise from my chair to lean my aching back against the sun-bathed balustrade, giving him time to imagine me revisiting all the hurts and frustrations of the past, and, perhaps, because his good fortune is proverbial, even already prepared to concede that he is right.

‘Gaius,’ I begin. His face softens just a little at the intimacy. ‘What can I say? Perhaps you’ve been a better friend to me in recent years, but Gnaeus and I were boys together under his father’s command in Picenum forty years ago. He’s done me several bad turns, it’s true, but he also fought like a lion to bring me home from exile. And he is still a very great servant of the Republic, just as you are. I won’t side against either of you.’

He spreads his hands wide. ‘Unlike Pompeius, I’m not asking you to.’

‘I’m grateful. I told you in my letters. All I’m interested in is peace.’

‘Then come to Rome and talk about peace, if you wish.’

I try not to scoff. ‘And say anything I please?’

‘I wouldn’t dream of prescribing to you.’

‘Then my motion will be that the senate decree that no legions depart Italy for Spain or Greece, and I will speak as much in Gnaeus’ interest as yours.’

‘Immortal gods, Marcus, that’s hardly helpful,’ he snaps, this time more convincingly frustrated. ‘You think that will bring peace? All that will do is force me to ignore the senate’s decree.’

‘Then don’t ask me to go to Rome.’

‘If I leave Afranius and Petreius in control of Spain, they and Pompeius – once he’s recruited enough of an army to reinflate his balls – will reconverge on Italy to stamp me out. Our homeland will become a battlefield.’

‘Gaius, if Gnaeus hadn’t decided to withdraw to Greece, Italy would already be a battlefield.’

He smacks his palm onto his knee. ‘There, I have your confession. You do condemn my actions.’

‘I wish with every fibre of my being that they hadn’t been necessary. If only I hadn’t been in Cilicia at such a crucial time for the Republic.’

‘Marcus, Marcus, that’s exactly my point. I need your counsel. I need you to help me hold our fragile state together. Don’t bury yourself in the countryside like Hortensius and Lucullus used to do. What was it you used to call them? Fish-fanciers?’

‘They ignored their responsibilities as consulars, Caesar,’ I cry, bristling. ‘I am more conscious of those responsibilities than almost any other man alive.’

He pushes himself out of the chair and walks slowly to the end of the terrace, where he pauses, as upright as a legionary on guard duty, staring out over the garden. My heart lurches as I remember that he probably has enough soldiers downstairs to brush aside my lictors easily and carry me off to Rome by force. Quintus and the boys will return to find Dionysius wailing that I’ve been trussed up and slung over the back of a horse. A bolt of anger sizzles through me at being at the mercy of this scoundrel once again. All of us being at his mercy. What is it that drives these wretched patricians to tear our state apart? Frustration. Petulance. Narcissism. Sulla, Lepidus, Catilina, now Caesar.

The small, sharp knife Dionysius has left on the tray to peel the fruit catches my eye and I wonder, shocking myself a little, whether I have it in me to take it up and kill him, ending this nightmare on the spot.

Yes, come on, Cicero, father of the nation, do what a father should to an incorrigibly destructive child. Do it now. He doesn’t expect to be attacked, since he’s come unarmed.

Pulse thudding in my ears, I take a step towards the table, stretching out my hand until my palm hovers above the blade, but then my nerve fails. I have never killed a man in my life, not even as a young officer cadet, and I think of my son and daughter, my brother, my nephew, all of whom I might be condemning to death at the hands of Caesar’s supporters.

He turns around, no sign on his face that he suspects what I was planning. So much for a soldier’s instincts. Jaw set, he frowns at me.

‘You really won’t come to Rome?’

I shake my head. ‘I must go to Arpinum.’

‘You understand that if you won’t advise me, I must seek counsel elsewhere? And all my other friends tell me that peace is impossible. They tell me I should secure Spain, then confront Pompeius. As you so forcibly reminded me, Marcus, we are at war, whether we like it or not. A war which, I assure you, I shall win. Pompeius hasn’t taken the field since he fought Mithridates and he’s never faced a commander of my calibre, nor veteran Roman legions hammered hard by the Gauls for the last ten years. And when the war is won and all this unpleasantness is over, I’ll need to set the government to rights. I would rely on you, my friend. Don’t reject my hand a second time.’

‘Let me think it over,’ I say, finally seeing that offering him some hope of my changing my mind will be the only way to get rid of him.

He clasps my shoulder, but his eyes are cold. ‘You don’t have time to write a philosophical treatise on the matter, Marcus. I need you in Rome on the kalends. Now, if you’re not coming at once, I must get on my way. Thank you for your hospitality.’ He takes a last swallow of his wine.

‘You’re always welcome in my house, Gaius.’

We shake hands, exchange the usual kisses on the cheek, which is brave on his part, because the gods know how disgusting my skin tastes, and then he’s gone.

A day and a half later, I finally sit down to describe the encounter for Atticus, who I’m sure will be thinking of nothing else.

‘I followed your advice in both respects, for I spoke more to gain his respect than his thanks, and I stuck like glue to my decision to stay here and not go to the city…’