Imperium

me.”
    Some of those present were opposed to such a dramatic tactic, considering it too risky. But the idea of appearing modest appealed to Pompey’s vanity. For is this not the dream of every proud and ambitious man? That rather than having to get down in the dust and fight for power, the people should come crawling to him, begging him to accept it as a gift? The more Pompey thought about it, the more he liked it. His dignity and authority would remain intact, he would have a comfortable few weeks, and if it all went wrong, it would be someone else’s fault.
    “This sounds very clever,” said Gabinius, who was dabbing at his split lip. “But you seem to forget that it is not the people who are the problem; it is the Senate.”
    “The Senate will come around once they wake up to the implications of Pompey’s retirement. They will be faced with a choice of either doing nothing about the pirates, or awarding the supreme command to Crassus. To the great majority, neither will be acceptable. Apply a little grease and they will slide our way.”
    “That is clever,” said Pompey admiringly. “Is he not clever, gentlemen? Did I not tell you he was clever?”
    “These fifteen legateships,” said Cicero. “I propose you should use at least half of them to win over support inside the Senate.” Palicanus and Afranius, seeing their lucrative commissions in jeopardy, immediately objected loudly, but Pompey waved them to be quiet. “You are a national hero,” continued Cicero, “a patriot above petty political squabbles and intrigue. Rather than using your patronage to reward your friends, you should use it to divide your enemies. Nothing will split the aristocratic faction more disastrously than if some can be persuaded to serve under you. They will tear one another’s eyes out.”
    “I agree,” said Caesar, with a decisive nod. “Cicero’s plan is better than mine. Be patient, Afranius. This is only the first stage. We can wait for our rewards.”
    “Besides,” said Pompey sanctimoniously, “the defeat of Rome’s enemies should be reward enough for all of us.” I could see that in his mind’s eye, he was already at his plow.
    Afterwards, as we were walking home, Quintus said, “I hope you know what you are doing.”
    “ I hope I know what I am doing,” replied Cicero.
    “The nub of the problem, surely, is Crassus and those two tribunes of his, and his ability to veto the bill. How are you going to get around that?”
    “I have no idea. Let us hope that a solution presents itself. One usually does.”
    I realized then just how much he was relying on his old dictum that sometimes you have to start a fight to discover how to win it. He said good night to Quintus and walked on, head down in thought. From being a reluctant participant in Pompey’s grand ambition, he had now emerged as its chief organizer, and he knew that this would put him in a hard place, not least with his own wife. In my experience, women are far less willing than men to forget past slights, and it was inexplicable to Terentia that her husband should still be dancing attendance on the “Prince of Picenum,” as she derisively called Pompey, especially after that day’s scenes in the Senate, about which the whole city was talking. She was waiting for Cicero in the tablinum when we arrived home, all drawn up in full battle order and ready to attack. She flew at him immediately. “I cannot believe things have reached such a pass! There is the Senate on one side and the rabble on the other—and where is my husband to be found? As usual, with the rabble! Surely even you will sever your connection with him now?”
    “He is announcing his retirement tomorrow,” Cicero soothed her.
    “What?”
    “It is true. I am going to write his statement myself this evening. Which means I shall have to dine at my desk, I am afraid, if you will excuse me.” He eased past her, and once we were in his study he said, “Do you think she believed me?”
    “No,” I replied.
    “Nor do I,” he said, with a chuckle. “She has lived with me too long!”
    He was rich enough by now to have divorced her if he wanted, and he could have made himself a better match, certainly a more beautiful one. He was disappointed she had not been able to give him a son. And yet, despite their endless arguments, he stayed with her. Love was not the word for it—not in the sense that the poets use it. Some stranger, stronger compound bound them. She kept him sharp,