Imperium

only because of his wealth but also his social connections, for if there is one man guaranteed to enjoy an automatic entrée into smart society it is a rich and witty bachelor in his middle forties with an unfeigned interest in the genealogy of his host and hostess. This made him invaluable as a source of political intelligence, and it was from Atticus that Cicero now began to realize how formidable was the opposition to his candidacy. First, Atticus heard over dinner from his great friend Servilia—the half sister of Cato—that Antonius Hybrida was definitely running for the consulship. A few weeks after that, Atticus reported a comment of Hortensius (another of his acquaintances) to the effect that Hybrida and Catilina were planning to run on a joint ticket. This was a serious blow, and although Cicero tried to make light of it—“oh well, a target that is double the size is twice as easy to hit”—I could see that he was shaken, for he had no running mate of his own, and at this stage had no serious prospect of finding one.
    But the really bad news came just after the senatorial recess in the late spring. Atticus sent a message that he needed to see the Cicero brothers urgently, so when the courts had closed for the day all three of us made our way up to his house. This was a perfect bachelor setup, built on a promontory next to the Temple of Salus—not large, but with the most wonderful views across the city, especially from the library, which Atticus had made the centerpiece of the house. There were busts of the great philosophers around the walls, and many little cushioned benches to sit on, for Atticus’s rule was that while he would never lend a book, any of his friends were free whenever they liked to come up and read or even make their own copies. And it was here, beneath a head of Aristotle, that we found Atticus reclining that afternoon, dressed in the loose white tunic of a Greek, and reading, if I remember rightly, a volume of Kyriai doxai, the principal doctrines of Epicurus.
    He came straight to the point. “I was at dinner last night on the Palatine, at the home of Metellus Celer and the Lady Clodia, and among the other guests was our former consul, no less an aristocrat than—” he blew on an imaginary trumpet “—Publius Cornelius Lentulus Sura.”
    “By heavens,” said Cicero with a smile, “the company you keep!”
    “Did you know that Lentulus is trying to make a comeback, by standing for a praetorship this summer?”
    “Is he really?” Cicero frowned and rubbed his forehead. “He is of course a great friend of Catilina. I suppose they must be in alliance. See how the gang of rascals grows?”
    “Oh yes, it is quite a political movement—him, and Catilina and Hybrida, and I got the impression there were others, but he would not give me their names. At one point, he produced a piece of paper with the prediction of some oracle written upon it, that he would be the third of the Corneli to rule as dictator in Rome.”
    “Old Sleepyhead? Dictator? I trust you laughed in his face.”
    “No, I did not,” replied Atticus. “I took him very seriously. You ought to try it sometime, Cicero, instead of just delivering one of your crushing witticisms which simply shuts everybody up. No, I encouraged him to ramble on, and he drank more of Celer’s excellent wine, and I listened more, and he drank more, and eventually he swore me to secrecy and he told me his great secret.”
    “Which is?” said Cicero, leaning forward in his seat, for he knew that Atticus would not have summoned us for nothing.
    “They are being backed by Crassus.”
    There was a silence.
    “Crassus is voting for them?” asked Cicero, which I think was the first time I had ever heard him say something seriously stupid: I ascribe it to the shock.
    “No,” said Atticus irritably. “He is backing them. You know what I mean. Financing them. Buying them the whole election, according to Lentulus.”
    Cicero seemed temporarily deprived of the power of speech. After another long pause it was Quintus who spoke up. “I do not believe it. Lentulus must have been well in his cups to make such a ridiculous boast. What possible reason would Crassus have for wanting to see such men in power?”
    “To spite me,” said Cicero, recovering his voice.
    “Nonsense!” exclaimed Quintus angrily. (Why was he so angry? I suppose because he was frightened that the story was true, in which case he would look a fool, especially in