Catilina's inner circle shared his sexual excesses. Like their mentor they flaunted their skill at playing either role in bed. Pretty boys made for dancing and singing, they had nevertheless learned to flail daggers and sprinkle poisons, and were thus more dangerous than their pouting faces and neatly coiffed beards might suggest. They frittered away their fortunes on gambling, harlots, and expensive wines, and the vomit that came from their mouths was vile talk about murdering loyal citizens and burning the city to the ground merely to cancel their debts. Now that they were fugitives, what would Catilina and his boys do without their debauched socialites and whores to tuck them in at night? Perhaps, Cicero pondered, their notorious practice of dancing naked at parties had only been conditioning for the cold nights to come by the camp fire.

The crowd in the Forum would devour such leering wit. But could even the least discriminating among them swallow the exaggerations that Cicero served up? 'What crime or wickedness has Catilina not been guilty of?' he demanded. 'In all of Italy there is not one poisoner, gladiator, robber, assassin, parricide, will-forger, cheat, glutton, wastrel, adulterer, prostitute, corrupter of youth or corrupted youth who has not been his mtimate. What murder has been done in recent years without him? What nefarious debauchery, except through him?'

The issues could not be clearer, for the two sides were like day and night. On the side of his cause, said Cicero, was everything modest, chaste, honest, patriotic, level-headed, and self-restrained; on the side of Catilina was everything insolent, lecherous, fraudulent, traitorous, hysterical, licentious, and hotheaded. 'On one side of this confrontation are justice, moderation, courage, wisdom, and all that is good; on the other side are injustice, luxury, cowardice, recklessness, and everything bad. Prosperity struggles against poverty; right against wrong, sanity against madness, hope for the future against bottomless despair. In such a conflict, even if human efforts may fail, will not the immortal gods themselves ordain that such a league of vices must be overthrown by such a glorious army of virtues?'

What patriot in the Forum could fail to cheer such a sentiment?

Along the way Cicero managed to reiterate the danger of a slave uprising, saying that even if Catilina succeeded in his revolt, he would merely bring chaos, and that would mean a country overrun by escaped slaves and gladiators. He deplored violence, but promised the people that in the dreadful event of war he would strive for the lowest number of casualties. And he piously called on 'the immortal gods themselves' to give strength to 'this invincible people, this glorious empire, this most beautiful of cities.'

Cicero's voice was in fine form and his timing impeccable, Eco said; the speech was well received. Reading these excerpts left me profoundly depressed.

The messenger who had arrived with Eco's letter returned bearing my reply. I told him that the house guest he had inquired about had indeed passed by on the Cassian Way, but had not stopped at my house. Indeed, by mutual agreement, the man would not be staying with me in the future. I did not want Eco to worry.

The rains continued. The earth was refreshed and the stream was recharged. Though our worries over the shortage of hay were just beginning, our great worry about water was finally over, and for the first time I saw the water mill move without human intervention, driven by the power of the rushing current. To see it in motion, the great wheel revolving in its circle, the gears meshing against one another in harmony, made me think of my old friend Lucius Claudius, whose demeanour had been likewise harmonious. He would have been delighted by the mill, and that pleased me. I thought also of Catilina, whose practical genius had solved the riddle of the water mill where I had failed. Those thoughts pleased me less, for I could see no happy outcome for Catilina and his company. I tried not to think of them at all.'

That would not be possible for long, I knew. All Italy must be talking about Catilina, awaiting word of his fate. Some would listen in hopeful expectation of an uprising against the Optimates; others would listen with spite in their hearts, praying for the traitor's demise; and others would simply wait anxiously, remembering the devastation of the wars, purges, and uprisings that had wracked Italy in recent years.

I secretly hoped that Catilina would do as he had said, and flee to Massilia. But this was not the case, or so it seemed from the letter I received from Eco a few days after the Ides of October

Dearest Papa,

The press of events here prevents me from coming to visit you, or I surely would. I miss your steady counsel and the sound of your voice. I miss Bethesda as well, and Diana, and my brother Meto. Give them my love.

The news here is that Catilina has definitely taken up arms with Manlius in Faesulae. He is said to have stopped in Arretium first and to have stirred up trouble there. We hear fresh rumours every day of uprisings to the north and south, near and far. The people of Rome are in a state of great agitation and anxiety. I remember nothing like it since the years of the Spartacan revolt. People talk of nothing else, and every fishmonger and shop owner has an opinion. As the playwright says: ‘The underworld shivers like a web being plucked at one corner.'

The Senate, at Cicero's urging, has declared Catilina and Manlius outlaws and enemies of the people. Any man who takes them under his roof will be considered an enemy of the people as well. I know you understand.

An army is being raised under the command of the consul Antonius. There will almost certainly be war. People speak of Pompey rushing back from his foreign duties to save the day, but people always say that about Pompey in times of domestic crisis, don't they?

Please, Papa, come to Rome and bring the family. Surely the farm is disagreeable at this time of year. Rich men abandon their farms for the city in the winter, so why shouldn't you? If there is a war, it is likely to be waged in Etruria, and I cannot sleep when I think of your vulnerable position. The city would be so much safer for all of you.

If you will not come for a long stay, then please come for a visit very soon, if only so that I may speak to you in terms more frank than a letter permits.

This is the fond desire of your loyal son, Eco.

I read the letter twice. On the first reading I was touched by his concern, smiled to see him quoting Bolitho (a second-rate playwright, but Eco has always loved the stage), and shook my head at his admonishment not to let Catilina under my roof again; why did he worry when I had already let him know that my guest would not be returning? On a second reading I was mainly struck by the unease and unnatural restraint of his tone.

Eco had come to the farm when I needed him, even though I had not directly asked him to. I could hardly do less when he pressed me so passionately to visit him. I consulted with Bethesda. I asked Aratus when I would be least missed (knowing he would be happy to have me gone and out of his way at any time). Between them I decided that the family would take a trip to the city at the beginning of December.

For a man who professed a weary disgust for politics, my timing could not have been more ironic. My summer trip had subjected me to political harangues and led me through the voting stalls against my will. My winter trip would make me a witness to afar grander spectacle, for with less than a month remaining of his year as consul Cicero was about to experience the crowning moments of his career. Life is like the Cretan Labyrinth, I sometimes think; whenever we bump our noses against a wall, somewhere the Minotaur is laughing.