Lustrum

moment I thought Clodius might hit him. But then he smirked, and started wiggling his head from side to side derisively. 'Oh, I am a terrible man. A terrible, terrible man …'
    He looked so comical that Cicero forgot his anger and started laughing at him. 'Go on,' he said. 'Clear off, and take your mischief somewhere else.'
    That was Clodius before he changed: a moody boy – a moody, spoilt, charming boy. 'That fellow amuses me,' Cicero remarked after the young patrician had gone, 'but I can't say I really care for him. Still,' he added, 'I'll forgive any man a coarse remark who brings me such intriguing news.' From then on he was too preoccupied trying to work out all the implications of Pompey's homecoming and potential remarriage to resume dictating his poem. I was grateful to Clodius for that at least, and thought no more about his visit for the remainder of the day.
    A few hours later, Terentia came into the library to say goodbye to her husband. She was leaving to celebrate the Good Goddess's nocturnal rites. She would not be back until the morning. Relations between her and Cicero were cool. Despite the elegance of her private apartments on the upper floor, she still hated the house, especially the late-night comings and goings of Clodia's louche salon next door, and the proximity of the noisy crowds in the forum who gaped up at her whenever she went on to the terrace with her maids. To try to placate her, Cicero was going out of his way to be friendly.
    'And where is the Good Goddess to be worshipped tonight?If,' he added with a smile, 'a mere man can be entrusted with such sacred information?' (The ritual was always held in the house of a senior magistrate, whose wife was responsible for organising it; they took it in turns.)
    'At Caesar's house.'
    'Aurelia presiding?'
    'Pompeia.'
    'I wonder if Mucia will be there.'
    'I expect so. Why shouldn't she be?'
    'She might be too ashamed to show her face.'
    'Why?'
    'It seems Pompey is divorcing her.'
    'No?' Despite herself, Terentia was unable to conceal her interest. 'Where did you hear that?'
    'Clodius came round to tell me.'
    Immediately her lips compressed into a firm line of disapproval. 'Then it probably isn't true. You really ought to keep better company.'
    'I shall keep what company I like.'
    'No doubt, but do you really have to inflict it on the rest of us? It's bad enough living so close to the sister, without having the brother under our roof as well.'
    She turned without saying goodbye and stalked off across the marble floor. Cicero pulled a face at her narrow back. 'First the old house was too far away from everyone, now the new one is too close. You're lucky you're not married, Tiro.'
    I was tempted to reply that I had been given little choice in the matter.
    He had been invited weeks ago to dine that evening with Atticus. Quintus had also been asked, and so, curiously enough, had I: our host's plan was that the four of us should reassemblein exactly the same place and at exactly the same time as last year, and drink a toast in celebration of the fact that we, and Rome, had survived. Cicero and I turned up at his house as darkness fell. Quintus was already there. But although the food and the wine were good enough, and there was Pompey to gossip about, and the library was conducive to conversation, the occasion was not a success. Everyone seemed out of sorts. Cicero had been put into a bad mood by his encounter with Terentia and was perturbed at the thought of Pompey's return. Quintus, coming to the end of his term as praetor, was heavily in debt and apprehensive about what province he might draw in the forthcoming lottery. Even Atticus, whose Epicurean sensibilities were normally unruffled by the outside world, was preoccupied with something. As usual, I took my mood from theirs, and only spoke when asked a question. We drank to the glorious fourth of December, but for once not even Cicero could bring himself to reminisce. Suddenly it did not seem appropriate to celebrate the deaths of five men, however villainous. The past fell like a clammy shadow across us, chilling all conversation. Finally Atticus said, 'I'm thinking of going back to Epirus.'
    For a moment or two nobody spoke.
    'When?' asked Cicero quietly.
    'Directly after Saturnalia.'
    'You're not
thinking
of going,' said Quintus with a nasty edge to his voice, 'you've already made up your mind. You're
telling
us.'
    Cicero said, 'Why do you want to go now?'
    Atticus played around with the