The Dictator by Robert Harris Page A

doorposts!”
    However his real coup was to reveal the origins of the statue Clodius had set up. I had tracked down the workmen who had erected it and learnt that the piece had been donated by Clodius’s brother Appius, who had carried it off from Tanagra, in Boeotia, where it had graced the tomb of a well-known local courtesan.
    The whole room roared with laughter when Cicero revealed this fact. “So this is his idea of Liberty—a courtesan’s likeness, erected over a foreign tomb, stolen by a thief and set up again by a sacrilegious hand! And she is the one who drives me from my house? Holy fathers, this property cannot be lost to me without inflicting disgrace upon the state. If you believe that my return to Rome has been a source of pleasure to the immortal gods, to the Senate, to the Roman people and to all of Italy, then let it be your hands that reinstall me in my home.”

    Cicero sat to loud murmurs of approval from the distinguished audience. I stole a look at Clodius. He was scowling at the floor. The pontiffs leaned in to confer. Crassus seemed to be doing most of the talking. We had expected a decision at once. But Albinovanus straightened and announced that the college would need more time to consider their verdict: it would be relayed to the Senate the following day. This was a blow. Clodius stood, bent down to Cicero as he passed and hissed, through a false smile, just loud enough for me to hear, “You will die before that place is rebuilt.” He left the chamber without another word. Cicero pretended nothing had happened. He lingered to chat with many old friends, with the result that we were among the last to leave the building.
    Outside the chamber was a courtyard containing the famous white board on which the chief priest by tradition in those days published the state’s official news. This was where Caesar’s agents posted his Commentaries, and here was where we found Crassus standing—ostensibly reading the latest dispatch but in truth waiting to intercept Cicero. He had taken off his cap; here and there little wisps of brown fur still adhered to his high-domed skull.
    “So, Cicero,” he said in his unsettlingly jovial manner, “you were pleased with the effect of your speech?”
    “Reasonably, thank you. But my opinion has no value. It’s for you and your colleagues to decide.”
    “Oh, I thought it effective enough. My only regret is that Caesar wasn’t present to hear it.”
    “I shall send him a copy.”
    “Yes, be sure that you do. Mind you, reading is all very well. But how would he vote on the issue? That’s what I have to decide.”
    “And why do you have to decide that?”
    “Because he wishes me to act as his proxy and cast his vote as I think fit. Many colleagues will follow my lead. It is important I get it right.”

    He grinned, showing yellow teeth.
    “I have no doubt you will. Good day to you, Crassus.”
    “Good day, Cicero.”
    We passed out of the gate, Cicero cursing under his breath, and had gone only a few paces when Crassus suddenly called out after him, and hurried to catch us up. “One last thing,” he said. “In view of these tremendous victories that Caesar has won in Gaul, I wondered if you would be good enough to support a proposal in the Senate for a period of public celebration in his honour.”
    “Why does it matter if I support it?”
    “Obviously it would add weight, given the history of your relations with Caesar. People would notice. And it would be a noble gesture on your part. I’m sure Caesar would appreciate it.”
    “How long would this period of celebration last?”
    “Oh…fifteen days should just about do it.”
    “ Fifteen days? That’s nearly twice as long as Pompey was voted for conquering Spain.”
    “Yes, well one could argue that Caesar’s victories in Gaul are twice as important as Pompey’s in Spain.”
    “I’m not sure Pompey would agree.”
    “Pompey,” retorted Crassus with emphasis, “must learn that a