Imperium - Харрис Роберт (читать книги онлайн полностью без регистрации .TXT) 📗
We pressed on up the Flaminian Way, devoting a day to each of the decent-sized towns-Narnia, Carsulae, Mevania, Fulginiae, Nuceria, Tadinae, and Cales-before finally reaching the Adriatic coast about two weeks after leaving Rome. It was some years since I had gazed upon the sea, and when that line of glittering blue appeared above the dust and scrub I felt as thrilled as a child. The afternoon was cloudless and balmy, a straggler left behind by a distant summer which had long since retreated. On impulse, Cicero ordered that the wagons be halted so that we could all walk on the beach. How odd the things which do lodge in one’s mind, for although I cannot now recall much of the serious politics, I can still remember every detail of that hour-long interlude-the smell of the seaweed and the taste of salt spray on my lips, the warmth of the sun on my cheeks, the rattle of the shingle as the waves broke and the hiss as they receded, and Cicero laughing as he tried to demonstrate how Demosthenes was supposed to have improved his elocution by rehearsing his speeches with a mouth full of pebbles.
A few days later, at Ariminum, we picked up the Aemilian Way and swung west, away from the sea, and into the province of Nearer Gaul. Here we could feel the nip of winter coming on. The black and purple mountains of the Apenninus rose sheer to our left, while to our right, the Po delta stretched gray and flat to the horizon. I had a curious sensation that we were mere insects, creeping along the foot of a wall at the edge of some great room. The passionate political issue in Nearer Gaul at that time was the franchise. Those who lived to the south of the River Po had been given the vote; those who lived to the north had not. The populists, led by Pompey and Caesar, favored extending citizenship across the river, all the way to the Alps; the aristocrats, whose spokesman was Catulus, suspected a plot to further dilute their power, and opposed it. Cicero, naturally, was in favor of widening the franchise to the greatest extent possible, and this was the issue he campaigned on.
They had never seen a consular candidate up here before, and in every little town crowds of several hundred would turn out to listen to him. Cicero usually spoke from the back of one of the wagons, and gave the same speech at every stop, so that after a while I could move my lips in synchronicity with his. He denounced as nonsense the logic which said that a man who lived on one side of a stretch of water was a Roman and that his cousin on the other was a barbarian, even though they both spoke Latin. “Rome is not merely a matter of geography,” he would proclaim. “Rome is not defined by rivers, or mountains, or even seas; Rome is not a question of blood, or race, or religion; Rome is an ideal. Rome is the highest embodiment of liberty and law that mankind has yet achieved in the ten thousand years since our ancestors came down from those mountains and learned how to live as communities under the rule of law.” So if his listeners had the vote, he would conclude, they must be sure to use it on behalf of those who had not, for that was their fragment of civilization, their special gift, as precious as the secret of fire. Every man should see Rome once before he died. They should go next summer, when the traveling was easy, and cast their ballots on the Field of Mars, and if anyone asked them why they had come so far, “you can tell them Marcus Cicero sent you!” Then he would jump down and pass among the crowd while they were still applauding, doling out handfuls of chickpeas from a sack carried by one of his attendants, and I would make sure I was just behind him, to catch his instructions and write down names.
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.
