The Dictator by Robert Harris Page A

did not approve of slaves eating with their masters, and doubtless felt it was her prerogative, not her brother-in-law’s, to decide who should be present at her own table. In the event we were six: Cicero and Terentia on one couch, Quintus and Pomponia on another, Tullia and I on the third. Normally Pomponia’s brother, Atticus, would have joined us. He was Cicero’s closest friend. But a week before Cicero’s return he had abruptly left Rome for his estates in Epirus. He pleaded urgent business but I suspect he foresaw the looming family arguments. He always preferred a quiet life.
    It was dusk and the slaves were just bringing in tapers to light the lamps and candles when from somewhere in the distance arose a cacophony of whistles, drums, horn blasts and chanting. At first we dismissed it as a passing procession connected with the games. But the noise seemed to come from directly outside the house, where it remained.
    Finally Terentia said, “What on earth is that, do you suppose?”
    “You know,” replied Cicero, in a tone of scholarly interest, “I wonder if it might not be a flagitatio . Now there’s a quaint custom! Tiro, would you take a look?”
    I don’t suppose such a thing exists any more, but back in the days of the republic, when people were free to express themselves, a flagitatio was the right of citizens who had a grievance, but were too poor to use the courts, to demonstrate outside the house of the person they held responsible. Tonight the target was Cicero. I could hear his name mingled among their chants, and when I opened the door I got the message clear enough:

Whoreson Cicero where’s our bread?
Whoreson Cicero stole our bread!
    A hundred people packed the narrow street, repeating the same phrases over and over, with occasional and saltier variations on the word “whoreson.” When they noticed me looking at them, a terrific jeer went up. I closed the door, bolted it and went back to the dining room to report.
    Pomponia sat up in alarm. “But what shall we do?”
    “Nothing,” said Cicero calmly. “They’re entitled to make their noise. Let them get it off their chests, and when they tire of it they’ll go away.”
    Terentia asked, “But why are they accusing you of stealing their bread?”
    Quintus said, “Clodius blames the lack of bread on the size of the crowds coming into Rome to support your husband.”
    “But the crowds aren’t here to support my husband—they’ve come to watch the games.”
    “Brutally honest, as always,” agreed Cicero, “and even if they were here for me, the city has never to my knowledge run short of food on a festival day.”
    “So why has it happened now?”
    “I imagine someone has sabotaged the supply.”
    “Who would do that?”
    “Clodius, to blacken my name; or perhaps even Pompey, to give himself a pretext to take over distribution. In any case, there’s nothing we can do about it. So I suggest we eat our meal and ignore them.”
    But although we tried to carry on as if nothing was happening, and even made jokes and laughed about it, our conversation was strained, and every time there was a lull, it was filled by the angry voices outside:

Cocksucker Cicero stole our bread!
Cocksucker Cicero ate our bread!
    Eventually Pomponia said, “Will they go on like that all night?”
    Cicero said, “Possibly.”
    “But this has always been a quiet and respectable street. Surely you can do something to stop them?”
    “Not really. It’s their right.”
    “Their right!”
    “I believe in the people’s rights, if you remember.”
    “Good for you. But how am I to sleep?”
    Cicero’s patience finally gave in. “Why not put some wax in your ears, madam?” he suggested, then added under his breath, “I’m sure I’d put some in mine if I were married to you.”
    Quintus, who had drunk plenty, tried to stifle his laughter. Pomponia turned on him at once. “You’ll allow him to speak to me in that way?”
    “It was only a joke, my